


Blond Barista Seeks Dashing Ballet Dancer: Inquire Within

by prettysailorsoldier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Ballet, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Teenlock, Unilock, balletlock, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 06:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between classes, his job at a local cafe, and being captain of the rugby team, John Watson's life is plenty stressful enough without the addition of a mysterious ballet dancer he can see through the windows of the dance studio across the street, but, somehow, he can't bring himself to mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blond Barista Seeks Dashing Ballet Dancer: Inquire Within

**Author's Note:**

> Got a Tumblr? [Find me!](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/)

“Thank you, have a nice day,” John said, smiling mechanically as he nodded his head at the couple who took their drinks off the counter, the woman smiling politely back while the man tipped his cup in John’s direction.

They left several footsteps later, the bell chiming in signal of their exit, emptying the café once again, and John checked his watch with a sigh, bracing his hip against the counter.

4:46. Two minutes to go.

A loud thump drew his attention to the employees only door behind him, and he rushed forward just in time to get his hands under the toppling side of a box, a small squeak issuing from behind the cardboard.

“Sorry,” Molly muttered, the box shifting as she readjusted, “thought I could manage it.”

John chuckled, helping her hoist the box up onto the counter. “Molly, this thing weighs more than you do!” he chided, the girl glared at him as she straightened up from behind the cardboard barrier.

“It’s just coffee,” she snapped, plucking free a few bags and moving across to the near-empty plastic containers beside the grinders.

“Yeah, but a lot of it,” John replied, filling his arms with dark roast while Molly began refilling the medium.

Molly scoffed, ignoring him shaking his head as he drew up beside her, unrolling the tops of the bags and pouring out beans to ping hollowly against the plastic walls. “How much do you think it’ll pick up after dinner?” she asked, and John shrugged, tossing the empty bag into the bin before starting another.

“Dunno. Probably not much,” he supposed, turning to look at the quiet street out the windows beyond her. “It’s only Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?” Molly echoed, brows furrowing as she leaned back to read the clock on the wall above them. “Isn’t your-”

John dropped the bag he was working on, a few beans pattering over the counter as he spun around, practically throwing himself over the cash register. He checked his watch again, 4:48 looking back at him, and then lifted his chin just in time to see the light come on in one of the second story windows of the building across the street, right on time, as always.

Molly snickered behind him, and, though his cheeks reddened, he paid her no mind, leaning further forward and squinting as if that could make time move faster.

Too many moments later, a figure appeared in the window, dropping their grey gym bag to the floor, the strap catching on the neck of the loose mint green t-shirt to reveal a pale collarbone, and John’s knees instantly liquefied, dripping down his shins to pool at his feet.

There was a vibration through the counter beneath his palms, and he started, snapping his head to the left to find Molly smirking out the window.

“Ah, yes,” she mused, quirking a brow at him as she peered out of the corner of her eyes, “Mr. Ballet.”

John glared, the heat he could feel in his cheeks probably dampening the effect, but Molly likely would’ve chuckled regardless, turning back to refilling the coffee beans.

“You know, one of these days, you’re gonna have to talk to him,” she cast back over her shoulder, and John scoffed.

“How?” he mocked. “Smoke signals?”

“We could get out those paints we used for the Christmas mural,” she suggested, grinning impishly. “Write ‘Blond Barista seeks Dashing Ballet Dancer: Inquire Within’ across the front windows.” She lifted a hand, trailing it through the air to illustrate the grand proclamation, and then laughed when John tossed a nearby rag at her—a clean one, he’d made sure. “Seriously, though,” she said, peeling the rag off her shoulder and dropping it to the counter, “how much longer are you gonna do this?”

“Do what?” John asked, and Molly gave him a flat look.

“Gaze longingly out the window and sigh,” she snapped, and John rolled his eyes. “Honestly, it’s like watching a casting call for a Jane Austen adaptation. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, you turn into Elizabeth Bennet.”

“Elizabeth Bennet didn’t sigh,” John muttered, turning back to the window as he folded his elbows on the counter. “She was too proud.”

“Or was she too prejudiced?”

“The eternal question asked yet again,” John mused, and Molly laughed, John smiling at her over his shoulder before returning to the best part of his job.

John had started working at the popular café near the university campus almost three months ago, three days a week from 3pm to close. He’d gotten the job through Molly, the two of them becoming friends during a shared chemistry course last semester, and they now coordinated their shifts, Molly the only other person working with him most days. Which was lucky, because John didn’t think anyone else would understand.

It was his second week before he’d noticed him, the boy Molly wouldn’t stop referring to as Mr. Ballet no matter how much John blustered. The café sat directly opposite the back of a dance studio, the wide windows of the practice rooms open for viewing as the hour got later, when the interior lights overpowered the glare of the sun. It had been a Thursday, John would probably never forget, when the light had come on in one of the upper rooms at exactly 4:48pm, John looking up expecting to find one of the instructors doing a last sweep before leaving for the night, and then promptly dropping his jaw, the caramel he was meant to be drizzling atop whipped cream pouring steadily down on a single spot as he froze.

The boy was talking to an older woman John had seen quite often—presumably the owner—but he was an entirely new face, pale skin draped over sharp cheekbones John could make out even from that distance. He had a head of untidy dark curls, tight black leggings that clung to every inch of his mile-long legs, and a loose grey V-neck that draped over his pale chest, thin muscular arms protruding from the fluttering sleeves. The woman said something to him, and the man appeared to chuckle in response, John’s heart stuttering as the alabaster face spread into a smile, angled cheeks flushing slightly as the man’s hand lifted to rub self-consciously at the back of his neck. The woman smiled at him, pushing a curl off his forehead before waggling a finger at him in apparent chiding, but the boy only laughed, and the woman then withdrew, leaving him to drop his bag to the floor and pull out a blue water bottle.

At that point, the customer John had been waiting on had cleared her throat, no doubt noticing the caramel cavern he’d created in her whipped cream, and he had hastily apologized, snapping a plastic lid on the drink and passing it across to her with a straw and a muttered “Have a nice day!”. There had been one more drink to do after that, thankfully something simple that even John’s trembling hands and flustered mind hadn’t been able to screw up, and, as soon as the customer had passed back through the door, John had pressed himself against the counter, staring at the empty window with a sinking feeling he’d imagined it all.

A few seconds later, however, he’d appeared again, crossing in front of the window to place his water bottle beside his bag, and then stepped away toward the center of the room, pulling on his arms over his head in a stretch. Shaking his arms loose, he cracked his neck, and then stilled, a tall statue frozen under fluorescent lights as John held his breath. On a cue John couldn’t hear, the man suddenly swept to life again, drawing an arm over his head and swinging a leg back so high, it made John dizzy, and he’d never completely regained his balance.

John didn’t know anything about ballet. He’d done a bit of research since beginning his leering, but he still didn’t really _know_ anything, other than some rather graphic descriptions of dancers’ toes he’d like to bleach out of his brain, that is. He didn’t know what the particular twists and turns of the man’s body were called, only that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from them, couldn’t fathom ever having considered anything beautiful when this was clearly the only true thing worthy of the word, and, periodically, when the man would scowl and rattle his head with some internal disappointment before moving back to his starting position, John would stare in disbelief, unable to conceive how he could possibly think he’d made a mistake. John had watched the odd video clip of _The Nutcracker_ or _Swan Lake_ , a desperate attempt to build up a tolerance, but none of it compared to the dark-haired man in the window, a specter that haunted John’s every waking moment. Even the unconscious ones weren’t safe from his grasp, lithe limbs and sweat-stained shirts clinging to smooth planes of muscle invading John’s mind while he slept, and he was practically shaking by the time he got into work Tuesday afternoons, two whole days far too long to go without a fix. Some days, he’d feel guilty, attempting to keep his eyes averted as he saw the silhouette dart through the corner of his eye while he worked, but it was always for naught, and he’d be back to gaping before the clock even hit 5, the man always practicing until at least 6:30.

“You did it again,” Molly said, suddenly at his side, a smirk growing on her face as he turned to her. “Sighed,” she clarified, chuckling at John’s glare, and then they both turned back to the window, watching the man’s repeated fouettés, one of the moves John had managed to place a name to. “I did ballet for a while,” Molly continued, smiling as John turned a curious frown to her. “When I was little. I wasn’t very good,” she admitted with a grimace, and John laughed, shaking his head as he looked back across the street.

The man was still turning, spinning on the spot so many times, John lost count, feeling off balance just looking at him twisting like a top, but the man never faltered, curls bouncing as he whipped his head around again and again.

“He is very good,” Molly remarked, seemingly idly, but John narrowed his eyes at her all the same.

“Hey,” he grumbled, shoving her lightly on the shoulder, “get your own stranger to stare at.”

Molly laughed, throwing her head back as she turned toward the box of coffee beans. “Don’t worry, he’s all yours,” she assured, removing several bags of light roast and dropping them onto the counter. “Just keep the rugby team jogging past the library on Sunday mornings, and we’ll call it even.”

“I _knew_ it!” John exclaimed, rounding on her. “I _knew_ you weren’t working on a paper! No one in their right mind goes to the library at 8am!”

“Oh, believe me,” Molly murmured, shaking her head down at the container as she poured out one of the bags, “there is _nothing_ right with my mind when they go jogging by.” She smirked over her shoulder, lifting her brows at him, and then burst into laughter as he shook his head with stern disapproval, waiting until she’d turned back to the wall before cracking a small smile himself.

*********

A sister? It could be a sister. Or a friend. A fellow ballet dancer. Maybe the elderly owner’s niece.

John tapped his fingers on the counter, biting his cheek as he glared daggers up at the window.

A young brunette sat on the chair beside the window, her long legs crossed in tight black jeans that opened to shiny red heels. She was watching the dark-haired dancer, the two of them chatting idly while he practiced, and, though there was nothing obviously romantic about it, it still set John’s teeth on edge. She got to be in the _room_ with him, got to sit and watch the masterpiece-in-motion up close, and it felt to John like a kind of invasion, an intrusion into the intimacy he’d constructed with a complete stranger across the street who didn’t even know he existed, but he was ignoring the absurdity of it for the moment, focusing instead on the possessive jealousy that licked through his veins like a California wildfire.

The woman uncrossed her legs, leaning forward over her knees as she spoke again to the man, one side of her white wide-neck top slipping off her shoulder as she moved her hands in the air, and John’s fingers cracked into a fist on the granite, his jaw clenching.

“Still there?” Molly asked from behind him, drawing up to his side where he stood behind the cash, and John hissed in a steadying breath before replying.

“Yes,” he growled, watching Molly’s face turn to him in his peripheral vision, her eyebrows climbing.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” she consoled, waving an unconcerned hand in the air. “It’s probably a relative or something. They look similar enough.”

“You can’t even see her face,” John retorted, but Molly shrugged.

“You can still tell, though,” she said, gesturing up at the window through the spring rain that had blanketed London all day. “They’re both thin, dark hair, attractive-”

“Attractive!?” John spluttered, eyes widening. “You think she’s attractive!?”

Molly’s mouth moved soundlessly a moment, glancing between John and the duo in the window. “I- Well, she’s got her back turned, I can’t really-”

“How attractive?” John pressed anxiously. “Like, on a scale of 1 to 10?”

“John!” Molly half-laughed, shaking her head at him. “It’s just a girl!” she said, throwing a hand up at the window. “Just someone watching him practice. He might not even _like_ girls.”

“Why, because he’s a ballet dancer and they’re all gay?” John snapped.

“No, I was just-“ Molly started to defend, and then stopped, her face falling to a frown. “Why are you getting defensive right now?” she questioned. “You’re a guy. You _want_ him to be gay.”

“He could be bi,” John replied, having thoroughly considered every angle of the sexuality dilemma. “Or asexual or something. But why do you think he’s gay? Does he look gay?”

“Now who’s stereotyping!”

“Well, if she’s attractive, and he’s _not_ gay-”

“He still might not like her,” Molly interjected. “You’re bi, and you don’t fancy everyone, do you?”

John was silent a moment, mouth stuck open as he realized he was caught. “Well…no,” he murmured, “but this is different.”

“Why?” Molly asked, and John floundered, mouth flapping as his mind raced.

“Be-Because,” he stammered, and Molly smiled, shaking her head fondly at him.

“John,” she said, her voice soft, “don’t worry about it. Anyone who can sit there that long and keep their hands off him clearly isn’t interested.”

John chuckled, dropping his eyes to his shoes, and then nodded, smiling across at the girl. “Yeah,” he murmured, “yeah, you’re-you’re probably right.”

“Course I am!” Molly chirped, spinning back to the espresso machine as John laughed. “Now, look alive; I think those theatre majors are headed our way.”

John frowned, looking out the front windows to find a group of six or seven students walking down the pavement on the opposite side of the street. “How do you know they’re theatre majors?” he asked, and Molly turned over her shoulder, bobbing her head at the approaching students.

“Because the theatre department is doing _Macbeth_ next month and the Renaissance Fair was in October,” she replied, puzzling him a moment before he noticed two of the men in the group were wearing long flowing capes, their hair smoothed back with enough gel to withstand a hurricane and eyeliner encircling their eyes.

“Fair enough,” John muttered, Molly stifling her laugh just as the door opened. “Hello!” John greeted, smiling brightly at the newcomers as they shook their umbrellas on the black carpet runners. “What can I get you?”

The theatre majors ended up being a fairly simple bunch, most of them just wanting black coffees, but there was one blonde who requested an iced mocha, lingering by the counter while John measured out the ingredients into a blender.

“How long have you worked here?” she asked bluntly over the granite ledge, smiling as John turned to her. “Sorry, it’s just- Well, we come in here all the time, and I haven’t seen you before.”

“Oh,” John replied, shrugging a shoulder as he settled the blender onto the base. “About four months. I only work Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, though.”

“Oh, okay,” the girl said, nodding as she followed John back to the cash register, away from the grinding ice, “that explains it. We’re usually in here earlier in the day, or Fridays after practice.”

“Practice?” John inquired, and the girl nodded, smiling brightly.

“Yeah, for the play,” she explained, Molly coughing pointedly from where she was cleaning the espresso machine behind him. “We’re all in it. Well, not _in_ it, necessarily,” the girl added, bobbing her head side-to-side. “Most of us are behind the scenes.”

“Well, that’s still important,” John said, shrugging a shoulder. “Wouldn’t be much of a play otherwise. Can’t bring Birnam wood to Dunsinane without the stage crew,” he chuckled, faltering as the girl blinked blandly at him. “That’s-That’s right, isn’t it?” he muttered. “You are doing Mac-”

The girl sputtered a burst of nonsensical syllables, waving him silent as her eyes blew wide with panic, and John froze, staring at her in shock. “Sorry!” she urged, her cheeks darkening as she lowered her arms. “It’s- Well, it’s considered bad luck to say that-that particular title in the theatre.”

John blinked, forehead creasing with mounting confusion. “But…we’re in a coffee shop,” he said slowly, and the girl chuckled, tucking her sheets of hair behind her ears.

“Yeah, well…all the world’s a stage!” she replied, still blushing as she waved her hand out in gesture to the café, and John laughed, shaking his head as he withdrew to finish her drink.

“Fair enough,” he answered, scraping the icy contents into a waiting plastic cup, topping it off with whipped cream and a swirl of chocolate syrup before snapping the lid on and returning to the cash register. “Here ya go,” he said, sliding the drink across the counter along with a paper-wrapped straw, and the girl plucked them both up, flicking the straw at him in farewell.

“Cheers,” she bade, and John nodded, turning around to clean out the blender only to find Molly eyeing him disparagingly.

“What?” he muttered, but the girl only rolled her eyes, tugging closed the bin bag in her hand before heading through the back room toward the dumpsters in the alley. John rattled his head, women eternally beyond his understanding, and then moved to the sink, carrying the blender with him to rinse out the icy remains.

It took some time for the water to get hot enough, and then he carefully scrubbed around the blades, clearing out any and all lingering chocolate particles. With a final swirl of hot water, he pushed off the tap, turning the blender upside-down on the drying rack as he turned back toward the cash, drying his hands with a towel, and then froze, the cloth slipping from his fingers to flutter to the tile.

John always thought, if he ever saw the ballet dancer anywhere but through the window of the practice room, he would look like a regular person, would lose the ethereal quality that held John in wordless rapture, but, as with most things in his life—totally being able to finish that paper in a night, long-distance relationships not being that hard, Netherlands winning the 2014 FIFA World Cup—John had been dead wrong.

The man was wearing white trainers and dark jeans, his hands protruding from the sleeves of a thin sapphire jumper, and he still looked like the sun came up every morning just to shine on him, although, at the moment, it was the rain’s turn, the waning storm leaving droplets in his curls as they bounced with his hurried steps.

The woman was walking with him, her face obscured by a large black umbrella, but, more horrifying and more pressing, they were walking toward the café, the woman’s red heels drawing closer with ever harried beat of John’s heart.

Panicked, he spun around, bursting through the employee’s only door to find Molly returning from out back, a small shout startled from her at his sudden appearance.

“Jesus!” she cried, clutching her chest. “What the _hell_ , John!? You almost-”

“I need you to take the cash,” he muttered urgently, pointing back out toward the shop. “And-And everything else. Just for a minute.”

“What?” Molly asked, frowning as she drew up in front of him. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I just-”

“John.”

“It’s him,” John blurted, time running too short to come up with a better lie. “It’s the guy. He’s coming in here with-with _her_ , and-”

“Wait, what?” Molly interjected, lifting a hand to halt him as she shook her head. “The guy? What guy? What are you-” She stopped, hand lowering as her mouth dropped open. “You mean…Mr. Ballet!?”

“That is a _stupid_ nickname, but yes,” John confirmed, and Molly’s eyes nearly fell out of her head, a worrisomely delighted smile growing on her face.

“Well, what are you waiting for!?” she urged, swatting her hands at him. “Get out there!”

“What!?” John spluttered, somewhere between offended and flabbergasted. “Are you mad!?”

“No,” Molly asserted calmly, catching him off-guard. “This is perfect! You never would’ve talked to him otherwise.”

“I- I-” John stammered, unable to come up with a counterargument, and then it was too late, Molly spinning him by the shoulders and steering him toward the door. “Molly! Molly, please, I’ll-I’ll write your immunology paper!”

“That’s grounds for expulsion.”

“I’ll clean the loos for a month!”

“Not interested.”

“I’ll jog the rugby team past your _flat_!”

Molly paused, the pressure on his shoulders relenting, and John peered back, finding the girl frowning thoughtfully at him. “Really?” she asked, lifting her brows as he nodded. “Hmm,” she considered, or, at least, John thought she had, but, a second later, too quickly for him to brace himself, she gave him a last almighty shove, tumbling them both through the door just as the entrance bell chimed.

The woman sighed, shaking her umbrella out as the dark-haired man swatted at his curls, both objects sending out a spray of droplets to catch in the overhead lights. “We could’ve shared this, you know,” she muttered up at the man, and, to John’s dismay, she was very attractive, her eyes lined with black while her lips stood out blood red against smooth skin.

“You always tilt it your way,” the dancer replied, and John hissed a faint gasp, simultaneously set aflame and dropped into ice water at the low purr of the man’s voice. “All the rain runs off the sides and onto me anyway.”

The woman huffed, eliciting a chuckle from the man as they began approaching the counter, and, as the stranger’s eyes lifted to his, John realized that he suddenly existed, was no longer one of the faceless millions we all know are out there but never meet, and, though he was still just ‘barista at the café across from the studio’ to this man, he could at least do that right.

“Hello,” he greeted, thankfully much steadier than he felt, but it probably helped having a customer service script to fall back on. “What can I-”

“Irene?”

John turned, along with everyone else, looking at Molly as she blinked in surprise at the woman, whose lips popped apart a split second later.

“Molly!?” she replied, and then they both burst into laughter, Molly quickly darting out from behind the counter toward her. “Oh my god!” Irene exclaimed as they embraced, and the man caught John’s eye, the two of them exchanging an equally perplexed glance before looking back as the girls pulled apart. “I can’t believe it! I didn’t know you were in London!”

“Yeah, at Queen Mary,” Molly said, pointing back over her shoulder in the direction of the university. “Medicine.”

“Seriously?” Irene blurted, beaming when Molly nodded. “I’m at Queen Mary too! Psychology.”

“What!?” Molly exclaimed, and John flinched, his head tilting away only slightly, but the movement had drawn Molly’s attention, and she looked over Irene’s shoulder, scanning between him and the man’s bemused expression. “Irene and I went to secondary school together,” she explained, pointing between them, and Irene turned around, smiling at him in introduction. “She was in the year above me, but we worked together on student council. I was talking about you just the other day, actually, wasn’t I, John?” she asked, and John blinked, frantically trying to remember. Molly fixed him with a pointed look, her eyes glinting. “Remember? That story I told you about a friend of mine getting kicked out of prom for bringing her girlfriend?”

John tried to keep his eyes from popping out, internally thanking god for the blessing that was dear sweet Molly Hooper, guardian angel in disguise. “Oh,” he said, turning a grin to Irene, “right. Well, it’s…nice to finally put a face to the legend.”

Irene laughed, red lips framing sparkling white teeth. “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” she muttered, extending a hand as John chuckled. “Irene Adler,” she said, and John took the offered palm, smile bright and chest weightless with relief.

“John Watson,” he replied, bobbing her hand once before drawing away.

The woman nodded, smiling at him. “Nice to meet you, John. Do you go to Queen Mary too?”

“Yep,” John chirped. “I’m medicine as well. Second year.”

“That must be why you look familiar!” Irene gushed, pointing up at him. “One of those first year mixers or whatever. I’m in my second year too.”

“Oh,” John said, searching over the woman’s face, trying and failing to place it, “yeah, er, maybe.”

“ _Or_ ,” Molly chimed in, leaning up between them, “it _could_ be-”

“Don’t,” John snapped down at her mischievous smirk, but she would not be dissuaded.

“-from that time your picture was on the main page of the school website for a month.”

“Oh my god!” Irene exclaimed, two fingers pointing at him this time. “That’s right! You- It was some sport thing, wasn’t it?”

“Rugby,” John begrudgingly admitted. “We won the championship last year, and there was apparently nothing else worth talking about for three weeks.”

Irene laughed, her voice high and clear in the still air, but it was the faint hiss of a chuckle from the dark-haired man that John held onto, the sound curling a smile on his own lips.

“John’s the captain this year,” Molly supplied, waving a hand at him. “He wasn’t last year, but he scored the game-winning try, so they put his picture up there.”

John smiled stiffly, awkward under all the eyes, but especially the grey ones. “Remind me to stop telling you things,” he directed at Molly, who sneered, and then attention slowly turned to the only person who hadn’t been included in introductions.

“Oh, shit, sorry!” Irene sputtered, waving a hand back at the dark-haired man, who had seemed rather content to stay out of the get-to-know-you exercise, but he shuffled forward all the same. “This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock Holmes lifted a hand, smiling sheepishly between John and Molly, and John had to glance down at his body to ensure he hadn’t actually melted into a puddle on the floor.

“It’s his first year at Queen Mary too,” Irene added, gesturing to Molly, who tilted her head, clearly intrigued.

“Oh?” she asked, and Sherlock nodded. “What program?”

“Chemistry,” he replied, and Molly’s lips trembled as she coughed away a laugh, John flushing at the slip while Sherlock only frowned.

“Huh,” she mused, regaining control of herself, “funny we haven’t run into you before, then. John and I take a lot of chemistry classes. That’s how we met, actually,” she added, turning to Irene to include her in the information. “We had biochemistry together last semester.”

“Oh!” Irene interjected, pointing between him and Molly, her eyes darting in tandem with the digit. “You two are…” She trailed away, lifting her eyebrows pointedly, and John exchanged a quick wide-eyed glance with Molly before they simultaneously scoffed.

“No,” John assured, shaking his head, Molly mimicking the gesture.

“Absolutely not.”

“Not a chance.”

“Like a snowball in hell.”

“ _Never_!”

“Not in- Wait, why ‘ _never_ ’?”

“Because I don’t deserve you,” John replied without missing a beat, batting his eyelashes as he grinned innocently at Molly’s glare, but his well-earned laughter was cut off by the blond girl from earlier sliding in between him and Sherlock, something only excusable because she dropped a few coins into the tip jar.

“Thanks again,” she said, green eyes twinkling over a smile John would swear was pinker than before, and he returned the gesture, nodding even though he had no idea what he’d done to deserve the implied first thanks.

“Sure thing,” he replied, calling out again as she headed toward the door. “And good luck with…the ‘M’ word,” he added, rolling a hand awkwardly in the air, and the girl laughed, tossing back a wave of thanks before heading out the door with her friends.

Sherlock had looked back to follow her exit, but now turned to John, one dark brow twisting up toward his still-damp curls. “The ‘M’ word?” he muttered, and John chuckled, glancing down at the counter between them as he scrubbed a hand up the back of his neck.

“Er, yeah,” he stammered, twitching a shoulder. “The theatre department is putting on _Macbeth_ this year, but I guess it’s bad luck to say it.”

Sherlock frowned, tilting his head, John the sole focus of his piercing grey gaze as Molly and Irene had drifted into their own conversation. “I thought that was only in a theatre?” he remarked, and John huffed a laugh.

“Yeah, well, apparently, all the world’s a stage,” he said, mimicking the girl’s earlier gesture at the café, and Sherlock laughed, John’s vision swimming a bit before he focused back on the man, whose laughter tapered off as he looked down at the tip jar.

“Er,” he muttered, clearing his throat as he flicked his fingers at the glass, “you, um- She- There’s-” He looked up at John helplessly, a whisper of pink getting the profound privilege of gracing his cheeks, and then John followed his gaze, heat rising up his own neck.

“Oh,” he croaked, spotting the slip of white paper the girl had surreptitiously dropped in with her change, a blue biro smiley face staring mockingly up at him through the glass. He swallowed, clearing his throat. “Right, um-“

“ _Another_ one!?” Molly blurted, eyes wide with incredulity. She then sighed, shaking her head as she stepped forward, thrusting her hand down into the array of change and bills. “Unbelievable! You’ve only been here four months, and I’ve already nearly filled the board.” She fished out the slip of paper, hastily unfolding it, her eyes scanning side-to-side as she read, and then let out a disappointed huff. “Abigail,” she snipped, turning it around between her fingers for John to see. “Figures. That’s the third ‘A’ in two weeks.”

John smiled, chuckling softly at the dejection on the girl’s face, and then noticed Sherlock and Irene, their faces identical expressions of bewilderment. “Oh, Molly keeps all the numbers I get,” he explained, although it didn’t seem to help, both students only further frowning at him. “She’s trying to collect the whole alphabet. There’s a poster set up in the break room and everything,” John added, waving a hand back toward the employee door, and Sherlock started to laugh while Irene simply looked more perplexed.

“So, you-you never call them?” she asked, jaw dropping as John shook his head. “Why not!?” she demanded incredulously, and John shrugged, opening his mouth just as Molly chimed in.

“Because he’s impossible to please,” she said, folding her arms as she leaned against the edge of counter, turning her cheek to John’s glower. “Ever since his girlfriend cheated on him with her econ professor last year-”

“Molly!” John interjected, but the girl didn’t even blink.

“-he’s been a bit gun-shy,” she concluded, looking back at him with a pitying grimace that Irene matched.

Sherlock, the only one John wouldn’t be killing—for various reasons—merely sucked his lips over his teeth, averting his eyes to the display of granola bars beside the register as if suddenly endlessly fascinated by nutrition facts.

“Seriously?” Irene asked, quirking a brow. “Her _econ_ professor?”

John shrugged, his privacy already invaded beyond repair. “He looked better in a bowtie,” he muttered, and Sherlock choked, bringing a fist to his mouth as he coughed into it, shooting an amused look up at John through his lashes. John smirked, confidence growing by the second as he turned back to Irene’s curious gaze.

“Still, though,” she continued, flicking a dismissive hand, “they’re _giving_ you their numbers! How many do you have anyway?” she asked, turning to Molly, who smugly lifted her chin.

“19,” she replied, smiling proudly at Sherlock and Irene’s twin expressions of shock. “Got all the difficult ones out of the way, too. Even ‘X’.”

“’X’?” Sherlock echoed, frowning between them. “What kind of name starts with ‘X’?”

“Xander,” John replied, and Sherlock’s eyes bulged, his face frozen as Irene burst into laughter.

“Wait, you get _guys_ too!?” she spluttered, laughing even harder as John nodded.

“Yeah,” Molly said, smiling sidelong at him, “he’s an equal-opportunity rejecter.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Irene quipped, and John dipped his head in a low bow.

“I try,” he remarked, and Irene laughed, leaning toward him over the counter.

“Well, then what’s the problem?” she asked. “Sounds to me like you’ve got the whole buffet lined out in front of ya.”

John shrugged, looking down at the buttons of the cash register and nowhere near Sherlock. “I’m just-”

“Picky.”

“Selective.”

“Semantics,” Molly concluded, flicking a regal hand in the air, and John rolled his eyes, glancing back at Sherlock to find the man only just recovering from his shock, blinking rapidly down at the floor as a swallow bobbed down his long neck. “Now, what would you like to drink?” she asked, looking back to Irene. “John can bring it over to us while we catch up.”

“Wait, what?” John attempted to object, but he might as well have been invisible, Molly not turning around, and Irene merely humming thoughtfully as she scanned the overhead menu.

“I think I’ll try a medium white chocolate mocha,” she said, and John tapped the appropriate buttons on the register. “Do you mind getting this one?” her voice continued, and John looked up, confused until he realized she was talking to Sherlock. “My treat next time,” she added with a smile, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket.

“See, you keep saying that,” he replied, flipping through his bills as if to check he had enough, “but ‘next time’ never seems to come.”

Irene beamed, blinking innocently at him, and then turned away, following Molly to a table in the corner by the window.

Sherlock watched after her, shaking his head, and John chuckled, drawing the man’s attention back to him.

“Want me to give her decaf?” he muttered, bobbing his head toward the two girls, but Sherlock only laughed.

“No,” he said, looking at the menu over John’s head, “she’ll be even more insufferable without her caffeine. I’ll just have a large light roast, black with two sugars.”

John nodded, typing in the order before taking the bill Sherlock passed across, ringing it in and counting out the correct change. “That’ll be right up,” he said as he dropped the coins into the man’s hand, Sherlock smiling politely in acknowledgement, and then turned to the espresso machine, surprised to see the dancer lingering beside the counter out of the corner of his eye. “So,” John started, because he could do this, he could totally do this, small talk with faintly flirtatious overtones practically his expertise, “chemistry, huh?” He blinked down at the nozzle of the espresso machine, internally congratulating himself on the _worst_ conversation starter the world had ever been forced to witness, but Sherlock only smiled, nodding as he drew around the counter to better meet John’s eyes. “That can’t be easy.”

“No more difficult than medicine,” Sherlock countered, and John huffed a laugh, shaking his head down at the steaming milk.

“I dunno about that,” he said, turning a quick sidelong smile up at the man. “That biochemistry I had with Molly was the hardest class I’ve ever taken. Identifying pictures of skin conditions is _much_ easier.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock answered with a shrug, folding his arms over the counter, and John scoffed.

“Lucky you,” he muttered as he poured the milk for Irene’s drink into a ceramic mug, prompting a laugh from the dancer. “I was near positive I had dermatomyositis until Molly pointed out that I’d fallen on that arm my last rugby game.”

“Dermato…?”

“It’s a rare inflammatory disease,” John explained to the man’s nonplussed expression as he swirled whipped cream atop Irene’s cup, “as opposed to a bruise, which is, as it turned out, what I _actually_ had.”

Sherlock laughed, John smiling up at him as he plucked a paper cup from the stack, none of their glass mugs quite big enough to accommodate a large coffee. “Isn’t it hard to find time for that?” Sherlock asked with a curious frown, shuffling along the counter to follow John to the massive coffee dispensers. “Rugby, I mean. With your degree and working here and all?”

John shrugged, pulling down the lever as he held Sherlock’s cup underneath. “I suppose, but…well, I work it out.” He moved the cup aside, picking up two sugar cubes with miniscule silver tongs and dropping them into the steaming liquid. “It’s always like that with hobbies, I guess. I mean, I’m sure it’s not easy for you to fit in…things that you do,” he finished hastily, ducking his head to hide his flush as he snapped on a plastic lid, scolding himself for almost blowing his cover.

“No,” Sherlock replied, oblivious to or unconcerned by John’s awkwardness, “I suppose it’s not. I don’t really do much, though.” He shrugged a shoulder, taking his drink when John passed it up. “I mean, technically, I’m the vice president of the LGBT society”—John nearly dropped Irene’s mug, his eyes blowing out to saucers as he kept his back to the man—“but that’s only because Irene talked me into joining, and no one else can stomach working with her on a regular basis. I don’t really do much.”

John took a breath, needing to close his eyes down at the drink a moment before he trusted himself to turn around. “I’m sure that’s not true,” he said, rounding the counter to join Sherlock on the other side, both of them heading toward the girls laughing in the corner. “It’s gotta be a lot of responsibility, running something like that.”

“Oh, I don’t run it,” Sherlock amended, shaking his head as he sipped at his drink. “I run after her,” he added, bobbing his head down at the back of Irene’s, and the woman turned around, as if possessing some sixth sense for mocking.

“Are you talking about me?” she snapped, John laughing while Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Believe it or not,” he muttered, hooking his foot around a leg of the chair beside Irene to pull it out, “some people are capable of having conversations that do not revolve around you.”

“Well, I’m certainly not one of them,” Irene quipped, winking up at John as he laughed, but Sherlock only shook his head, settling down in the wooden chair and clicking his cup onto the table.

“I was just telling Irene about your big match on Saturday,” Molly said, smiling up at him before turning to give Sherlock the context. “Rugby quarterfinals start this Saturday, and everyone’s out for blood since we won last year.”

Sherlock nodded, brow furrowing with faint concern as he slurped through the perforation in the plastic lid.

“We thought we’d go cheer you on,” Irene said, grinning up at him, and, though John smiled back, there was a slight prickling of suspicion at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, sure,” he approved, clipping a nod down at the woman as he placed her drink in front of her. “We could use all the support we can get.”

Irene beamed, and then turned to Sherlock, who had already been watching her warily, but who now made no attempt to hide it, his eyes narrowing to slits over the lip of his cup. “You’re not doing anything Saturday either, are you, Sherlock?” she asked innocently enough, but there was still a bit more pink in Sherlock’s cheeks than the steam from the coffee could account for.

“Er, no,” he confirmed, clearing his throat as he sat his cup on the table, idly tapping at the base with his thumbs. “No, I-I’m free.”

“Excellent!” Irene chirped, clapping her hands twice beneath her chin before elegantly lifting her mug to her lips. “It’s a date,” she added, exchanging a look over her cup with Molly, who stood up before John could properly fix her with a glare.

“Well, we’d better get back to work,” she said, smiling between Irene and Sherlock as she pushed in her chair. “It was nice to meet you,” she added to the latter, and Sherlock nodded, hastily swallowing a mouth of coffee.

“You too,” he bade, eyes shifting to John as Molly headed back to the counter, but they didn’t bother repeating the sentiment, merely exchanging shy smiles before John turned to follow Molly’s path.

Casting a glance over his shoulder as he moved behind the counter, he saw Irene and Sherlock were already engrossed in conversation, a frustrated pinch in Sherlock’s brow that John was sure had made a permanent home on his forehead as well, but he directed his to Molly, drawing up tight to the girl’s side as she idly swept a rag across the granite.

“What are you up to?” he hissed, and Molly tilted her head at him, a coy gesture in direct opposition to the shrewd glint in her eyes.

“I haven’t a clue what you’re referring to,” she replied, her attention drawn to something over his shoulder before he could respond. “Customers,” she muttered, and John turned around, finding a group of what appeared to be professors coming toward him.

In the moment he was distracted, Molly breezed past him, grabbing the dirty dishes from the sink before escaping into the backroom, and John sighed at the door left swinging in her wake, shaking his head as he stepped behind the cash register. “Hello!” he chirped as the bell chimed, the teachers halting their conversation to smile at him. “What can I get you?”

The first professor approached, attempting to wipe rain from her thick glasses as she squinted at the menu over his head, humming in indecision, and John took the opportunity of her hesitation to glance past her to the table in the corner.

Grey eyes were already fixed on him, widening slightly as John’s blue caught them, and then Sherlock smiled, a sheepish twitch of half his mouth to match the faint flush on his neck.

“A small hot chocolate.”

John blinked back to the woman, momentarily startled by her forgotten presence. “Er, do you want whipped cream with that?” he asked, trying to convince his heart to stop hammering in distraction as he grabbed a paper cup and a black marker, but Sherlock face still turned toward him in his peripheral vision wasn’t helping matters.

The woman shook her head, and John put a cross through the appropriate box, scratching in the abbreviation for hot chocolate before sitting the cup down beside him.

“That’ll be 2 pounds even,” he said, the woman dropping two coins into his hand, and John dropped them into the register just as Molly appeared again, grabbing the paper cup and heading toward the fridge for the milk. “She’ll have that ready for you at the end of the counter,” he concluded, the woman nodding politely before stepping aside for the next customer, but, before the man could order, John chanced a glance at the corner table again.

Sherlock wasn’t looking at him now, one brow pulled up as if he were highly skeptical of whatever story Irene was telling him, her hands waving through the air in wild gesticulations. The lights of the café caught in his eyes, bringing out hues of green in the storm grey, and the pale column of his neck bobbed with a swallow John couldn’t help but follow all the way down to the collar of the blue jumper, his own throat going dry at the sight. Just then, Sherlock’s gaze shifted to him, his movements hitching slightly as he lowered his cup back to the table, and John hastily turned away, trying to hear the professor ordering a medium latte over the rush of blood in his ears.

“Any flavor shots in that?” he asked, but he could see Sherlock smirking out of the corner of his eye, his face flaming under the stare as he marked the hazelnut addition on the professor’s cup, and he knew, clear as anything, that this was the beginning of his end.

*********

“Is that him?”

“No.”

“What about that one?”

“No.”

“Him?”

“Mike!”

“What?” Mike muttered, looking down to John sitting on the bench, bent over his knees to tighten the laces on his rugby boots. “I’m only curious,” he said, shrugging as he went back to scanning the crowd. “You sent me a bona fide _novel_ of a text message last night about ‘behaving myself’; I think it’s only natural I be interested in the person who has your knickers twisted so far up your ass.”

John opened his mouth, a retort ready on his tongue as he snapped his face up to his smirking friend, but another voice cut him off.

“What about John’s knickers?” Greg Lestrade grinned as he approached, flashing John a wink, and John rolled his eyes, but a small smile did tug at the corners of his lips.

John liked Greg, a senior member of the rugby team who had quite possibly been the only reason John hadn’t been ousted as captain within the first week, many of the older team members resenting the choice. Greg was in his final year of a law degree—something he was probably never even going to use, considering his desire to join the police force—and would have been the more expected choice for captain after the previous one graduated, but he’d made no issue of it when John was voted in, slapping him on the back with a hearty “Congratulations!”. Two weeks later, the older members still grumbling as they half-heartedly ran John’s drills, Greg would call them all to attention, and, with blistering profanity, inform them that he himself had voted for John, and that the next person to tell him he should demand a recount was going to get a rugby ball shoved so far up their ass, they’d be able to cough up rubber.

Needless to say, John hadn’t had any more problems after that, and he and Greg had become rather close friends, but he wasn’t so fond of him at the moment, shaking his head up at the smirking man.

“My knickers are fine, thanks,” he snapped, and Mike laughed, Greg blinking down at him in curious surprise.

“Don’t mind him,” Mike advised, batting a dismissive hand. “He’s just nervous because his boyfriend’s coming to watch the match.”

“What boyfriend?” Greg sputtered, eyes darting between John and Mike. “You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend. Who is he, where did you meet, how long has this been going on?”

“You wanna fingerprint him too, Inspector?” John mocked, but Greg only narrowed his eyes with a stern look. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” John sighed, rolling his eyes like a disgruntled teenager between his two overbearing parents. “He’s just some guy, a friend of one of Molly’s old schoolmates.”

“Molly’s coming?” Greg asked, brightening as John nodded, and John had to quickly duck his head to avoid his chuckle being obvious as Greg nervously ran a hand through his hair.

“He’s not just _some guy_ ,” Mike corrected, ignoring John’s razorblade stare. “He’s that ballet dancer John’s been lusting after for months.”

“I beg your-“

“Mr. Ballet!?”

“Why does everyone call him that!?” John cried, but Greg only stared down at him, eyes sparkling with mirth as his jaw hung open. John sighed, shaking his head as he gave his laces a final tug, tying them off and rising to standing. “You can’t mention the ballet thing,” he ordered, pointing between his two friends. “Neither of you, not at all.”

“Why not?” Mike asked, and John looked down at the grass, twisting his boots against the green blades.

“I- Technically, I’m not supposed to know about it,” he muttered, glancing at the men through his lashes. “He hasn’t mentioned it yet.”

“He hasn’t?” Greg confirmed, and John shook his head. “How did that happen? I mean, he’s coming to a match, isn’t he? So, you two must have talked or something.”

Once again, John shook his head, his face heating as he realized how absurd it all sounded now that he was forced to explain. “Not really. I mean, it was just the once, and not for very long. He’s really only coming because he’s a friend of Irene’s—she’s the old friend Molly invited.”

Greg frowned at him, Mike’s face demonstrating similar amounts of confusion.

“So,” the younger man began, “he’s coming to the match because he’s friends with Molly’s friend”—John nodded—“but he doesn’t really know you, or know that you and Molly know that he does ballet, or that you’ve been watching him for the past three months?”

Hesitantly, John nodded again, Mike’s eyes widening while Greg let out a low whistle.

“So, it’s probably best if we pretend we’ve never even heard of him,” Greg presumed, and John nodded once more.

“Does Irene know?” Mike asked, John frowning at him in confusion. “I mean, did Molly tell her? About the whole ballet thing?”

“I-I don’t know,” John murmured, pulse picking up as he considered the possibility. “I don’t think so. Molly would’ve told me if she did.” He looked up, scanning earnestly between his friends. “Right?” he asked, but they did not appear to have any reassurances, and, a moment later, a cry from the stands cut them off anyway.

“John!”

He turned, finding Molly standing at the foot of the bleachers, her hand flapping eagerly in the air. Sherlock and Irene stood just behind her, their faces turned toward one another as their mouths moved frantically, and then Sherlock irritably rattled his head, ending the conversation as he lifted his eyes to John’s. Reflexively, John smiled, darting his eyes to direct it at Molly before it got too creepy, and then made his way over to the group, Mike and Greg hot on his heels.

“Hey!” he greeted, a bit breathless, but they’d probably attribute that to warmups rather than the collar of Sherlock’s dark coat perfectly framing his sharp jawline. “You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Molly replied, and then looked past him to Greg, her smile somehow widening even further. “Hi,” she said, and John turned his head just enough to see Greg beam back.

“Hi,” he replied, and then they just stared at one another, smiling and slowly turning red, and John bit his lip, trying to stamp down a snort as he looked away.

He caught Sherlock’s eyes as his gaze shifted, the man frowning inquisitively between the two lovebirds, and then he quirked a brow at John, a wordless question John answered with a roll of his eyes and a soft smile.

Sherlock started to grin, but quickly ducked his face, sucking his lips over his teeth to force his smile flat just as Mike stepped forward.

“Do I know you?” Mike asked, brow furrowed as he searched Sherlock’s face. “Didn’t you take 111 last semester?”

“With Curran,” Sherlock confirmed, nodding, and Mike grinned, snapping his fingers as he pointed at him.

“I knew it! It’s Sherlock, right? Sherlock…something?”

“Holmes,” Sherlock finished, and then turned to John, taking mercy on his completely clueless expression. “Mike and I had a class together last semester,” he explained, and John nodded, internally wondering why Mike didn’t do him a solid and mention he had a Vogue model in one of his classes, but that was a right hook for another time.

“Oh, god, for as long as I live, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on Curran’s face when you corrected that equation on the exam,” Mike sighed wistfully, and Sherlock chuckled, his coat collar grazing his cheeks as he shrugged.

“Somebody had to,” he muttered, turning a shy smile to John as Mike laughed.

“Well, I don’t believe _we’ve_ met,” Greg said, and Irene chuckled, shaking her head.

“No, I don’t believe we have. I’m Irene Adler,” she replied, looking to Mike as well, both men smiling and nodding at her in introduction.

“Mike Stamford,” Mike said, followed quickly by Greg’s “Greg Lestrade”, and then Greg turned to Sherlock, crossing in front of John to extend a hand.

“Sherlock Holmes, was it?” he questioned, Sherlock nodding once as he took the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” Greg chirped, bobbing the paler hand up and down. “I’ve heard absolutely _nothing_ about you.”

Their hands pulled apart, Sherlock eyeing Greg curiously a moment before a hesitant laugh hissed over his teeth. “Er…thank you?” he replied, shooting John a quizzical look, but John avoided his gaze, turning his face up to the sky and asking God to look away when he murdered Greg later. “I, um, haven’t heard anything about you either.”

“Probably for the best,” Greg teased, flashing a bright grin as he slung over John’s shoulder, rattling him to his side. “Can’t imagine the sort of things John would say.”

John turned, smiling up at the man with more malice than mirth. “Keep it up and you won’t have to imagine,” he clipped, and Greg laughed, throwing his head back to the clouds as he released John from his grip.

A whistle blew behind them, the three rugby players turning instinctively at the sound to find the team drifting away from their warmups to the sidelines, the game about to begin.

“Well, that’s us,” John said, pointing back over his shoulder as he looked once again to the three visitors. “Catch up with you after?” he asked, scanning his eyes over the group at large, and everyone nodded, although Molly most enthusiastically, her eyes focused more on Greg than him.

“Yeah, sounds good,” she said, her smile growing to match Greg’s grin. “Angelo’s?” she questioned, looking to John again, and he nodded, looking over her shoulder to Sherlock’s furrowed expression.

“Angelo’s?” the dark-haired man echoed, and John chuckled softly as he began backing away toward the pitch, Mike and Greg already making their way to the bench.

“Molly will fill ya in,” he replied, bobbing his head at the girl with a reassuring smile, and then turned his back to Sherlock’s wary gaze, jogging to the bench and beckoning the team to his side.

John had always been at home on the rugby pitch, the smell of freshly hewn grass and churned earth washing away all the worries of the world, from the paper he had due next week to the rent money he was struggling to pull together. It even blocked out Sherlock, for the most part, the head of uncommonly dark hair blending into the stands as John ran back and forth across the pitch, barking orders over his heart pounding in his ears, but he caught sight of him now and again, his attention ineludibly pulled that direction whenever he drew close to where the man sat in the stands.

While Molly and Irene were invested in the game, cheering and booing with equal levels of enthusiasm, Sherlock was uncommonly still, only his head shifting side-to-side as he followed the game’s progress, grey eyes glinting with shrewd calculation even from where John stood meters away. Amidst the restless crowd, he ought to look out of place, a slim silent figure draped in black within a rolling sea of blue and white, but the effect was quite the opposite, Sherlock seeming more the eye of the storm than an uncomfortable participant. His spine was straight, his shoulders tense, the air crackling with every subtle shift of his head and furrow of his brow, and, when his eyes caught John’s across the pitch, it felt like lightning, John’s voice dying in his throat midway through the play call.

He quickly shook it off, however, clearing his throat and ignoring Mike’s speculative gaze as he completed the command, and then shifted into position, awaiting the drop of the ball. A flurry of movement followed, someone to his left kicking the ball free of the scrum, and then they all broke apart, Sam tossing John the ball as he swung around the still-dissolving pile. John didn’t run far before passing it off to Oliver, running only his strength in short distances, and then started to follow up the pitch, scanning to his right just in time to see a blur of Cardiff Metropolitan University yellow barreling toward him.

The impact of the late tackle rattled his teeth in his jaw, his skull slamming hard against the dirt, and the clamor of whistles, hisses of secondhand pain, and cries of injustice all blended together in his head, the sounds spinning just as much as the clouds he hazily blinked up at. He didn’t feel the pain until he made to roll onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, and then winced, clutching at his ribs just as Mike skidded down onto the grass in front of him.

“John!” he blurted, a hand gripping onto John’s shoulder as he supported him to sitting. “Are you alright?”

John nodded, coughing a bit as he struggled for breath, his lungs knocked empty by the impact. “Yeah, I- I’m fine,” he assured when he could manage it, looking up through the slowly growing circle of his teammates to find the ref waving a yellow card at his red-faced assailant, and the sight cheered him enough to brush off Mike’s hand, pushing into the grass and rising to standing.

The crowd exploded into cheers—their fans, anyway, although the opposing team’s audience did grudgingly applaud—pennants and pompoms waving frantically over their heads, and John smiled, lifting a reassuring hand to the masses. As he did so, pain twisted through his left shoulder like a knife, and he hissed in a gasp, abruptly dropping his arm as he grit his teeth around a wince. Swallowing down the discomfort, he glanced around, grateful to find no one else seemed to have noticed, and then turned back toward the stands, as if his mind had already sensed what his eyes only just now saw.

John wouldn’t have thought it was possible to look so disapproving from half a rugby pitch away, but something told him he’d better get used to Sherlock Holmes defying expectation. Somehow, the dancer must have noticed his injury, and was now shaking his head exasperatedly from where he stood beside Irene, as if John had somehow deeply disappointed him.

John smiled back, trying to shrug, but only ended up flinching again, his right hand twitching up toward his shoulder before he pinned it back down to his side. Looking sheepishly back toward Sherlock, he found the man glaring at him, his head bobbing in gesture to the sidelines, but John only shook his head, flicking a subtle wave to dismiss the suggestion.

Sherlock’s mouth opened in silent affront, and then he rolled his eyes, rattling his head and crossing his arms as he sat down in a huff John could almost hear.

John ducked his head to hide his smile, turning around to where his team was gathered, ready for the next play. He did his best to keep the pain off his face, but he thought Mike might have noticed something, his eyes turning shrewd when John winced at Luke bumping against his arm, but he said nothing, and, a few moments later, they were lining up once more, preparing to finish the game John was now even more determined to win.

Avoiding any plays that required anything more than a short pass on his part, John managed to get through the remainder of the game without further injury to his shoulder—though he doubted it was anything more than a bruise, a pulled muscle at worst—and they were charging victorious into the locker room a mere fifteen minutes later, John shaking his head fondly as he watched the celebration. He gave a short speech, the typical tripe of not getting too big of an ego as they proceeded toward the final, and then everyone darted off to the showers, John lingering in front of the lockers as he gingerly peeled off his shirt. His shoulder was already starting to bruise, but a bit of prodding here and there determined it was nothing more serious than that, and a stint under the hot water took care of most of the rest, only a dull throb remaining as he changed, white t-shirt clinging to his steam-sticky chest.

“Here,” said a voice to his left, and John looked up to find Mike coming around the corner, already prepared to leave and holding an ice pack.

John smiled, taking the ice with one hand and rummaging in his bag for sport tape with the other. “Thanks,” he murmured, temporarily placing the ice on a bench as he ripped off a segment of the red tape, struggling to keep it from sticking to itself as he attempted to affix it one-handed, and Mike chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped forward and took the tape from his grip.

“You should’ve sat it out,” he chided, pushing up John’s sleeve to stretch the first piece along the back of his shoulder. “The game was pretty well won anyway.”

“Yeah, well,” John muttered, shrugging only his opposite shoulder as Mike smoothed the second piece into place, “I couldn’t let you guys have all the fun.”

Mike huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he let John’s sleeve fall back into place, and then picked up the ice from the bench, passing it up to him. “Come on,” he said, dropping the tape back into John’s bag, “Greg and the others are waiting outside.”

“Others?” John pressed, apparently not very subtly, as Mike started to laugh.

“Don’t worry, your boyfriend’s still there,” he teased, John sneering up at him as he zipped his athletic bag, swinging it over his good shoulder before returning to holding the ice pack in place. “You wanna tape that?” Mike asked, pointing up at the ice, but John shook his head.

“Naw, I won’t keep it on too long. Probably just till we get to Angelo’s,” he replied, and Mike nodded, walking beside him toward the exit.

“Wait a minute,” he said, stopping in the corridor, his eyes scanning John with a puzzled expression. “Where’s your rugby jacket? You were wearing it before the game.”

John dropped his chin, lifting his brows at the man. “I left it in the car,” he explained, smirk growing on  his face. “Mum,” he added, continuing toward the door, pushing it open just as Mike caught up to elbow him in the arm.

“Oh, shit!” Mike spluttered, eyes wide with horror as John let out a small gasp of pain. “I’m sorry, are you-”

“It’s fine,” John assured, shaking his head with a chuckle as he readjusted the ice on his shoulder. “Not like you could hit hard enough to do any real damage,” he added, grinning across at the man, and Mike rolled his eyes, goading John into a laugh as they rounded the corner to the waiting group.

“Finally!” Molly cried, shoulders wilting forward in relief. “I’m starving! How long does it take to shower, honestly?”

“Well, we had to do our hair,” John joked, Molly sneering at him a moment before her eyes dragged down to the ice pack clutched against his shoulder.

“What happened?” she asked, nodding down at the injury, and John looked past her to find Sherlock rolling his eyes.

“Nothing,” John assured, meeting Sherlock’s skeptical gaze a moment before looking back to Molly, “just banged it up a bit when I fell.”

“Fell?” Greg scoffed. “That bloke hit you like a train!”

“I don’t know why it wasn’t a red card,” Irene interjected, moving around to Greg’s shoulder as she too scanned John’s arm. “He’d been playing dirty the whole game.”

“It’s his last year at uni, and he’s being scouted by some of the pro teams,” Sherlock supplied, everyone but Irene snapping their faces toward him in surprise. “The referee is a friend of the family,” the man continued, shrugging unconcernedly as he slipped his hands into the pocket of his coat. “I suspect he didn’t want to be responsible for ruining the boy’s chances.”

John blinked, watching as Sherlock scanned across their dumbstruck faces, a confused furrow slowly growing in his brow.

“What?” he muttered, and Irene sighed, rolling her eyes as she drew close to Sherlock’s side.

“Don’t mind him,” she said, placing a hand on Sherlock’s arm, the man’s grey eyes darting down to glare at the touch. “He fancies himself a psychic.”

“It’s called being observant,” Sherlock countered, twitching his arm out from beneath her fingers. “It was clear the referee knew the boy from the familiarity of their interaction, and the scouts weren’t exactly being inconspicuous,” he muttered, waving a hand up at a section of the stands to his left. “Who else would wear a suit to a rugby match? And that’s not even mentioning the clipboards.”

John frowned, following Sherlock’s gesture, a dim memory sparked in his mind of three men who’d been seated near the pitch, all of them wearing ties and frantically scribbling whenever John caught a glimpse of them as he ran by.

“Well, that shouldn’t be allowed,” Molly objected. “If he’s a friend of the family, how come he can referee the match?”

“They only look at family members,” John explained, shifting the thawing ice pack against his shirt. “Otherwise, it’d be up to the ref to disclose it. But it’s not a big deal,” he added, seeing the indignation growing on Molly’s face. “At least he called something, and it wasn’t quite bad enough for a red card anyway.”

Molly huffed, clearly disagreeing as she looked haughtily away, and John smiled, shaking his head at her before turning back to Sherlock.

“How’d you put all that together?” he asked as the others started to drift away toward the car park, and Sherlock shrugged, shifting the toe of his trainer across the grass.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “It’s just…something I’ve always done, I guess.”

“Always?” John pressed, and Sherlock nodded.

“Long as I can remember, anyway,” he said, falling into stride beside John as they started up the hill after their friends.

“Wow,” John muttered, feeling woefully inadequate all of a sudden. “So, you can do that with anyone?” he asked, turning his face up to the man. “Figure them out like that?”

Sherlock’s spine stiffened, his shoulders lifting with the tension as he watched John warily out of the corners of his eyes. “Well, no,” he said hesitantly. “I mean, not always. And not everything. Some people are just…easier to deduce than others.”

A laugh drifted back to them, John looking up to see Molly swatting playfully at Greg’s arm. “Yeah,” he mused, smiling as he nodded at the spectacle, “I think I know what you mean.”

Sherlock laughed, following his gaze. “They are rather obvious, aren’t they?”

“To everyone but them,” John grumbled, rolling his eyes as Sherlock chuckled.

“It does always seem to happen that way,” he said, his full lips twitching in a smile as he watched Molly talking animatedly, her hands shifting in the air between her and Greg. “The people involved can never see what’s going on.”

“Yeah, why is that?” John asked, and Sherlock laughed, shaking his head as he shrugged down at the ground.

“I don’t know,” he replied, looking up to where Molly was sliding into the passenger seat of Greg’s car, Mike getting in the back. “More room for self-doubt?” he suggested, and John tipped his head, accepting the explanation.

“I s’pose it is easier to talk yourself out of things sometimes,” he agreed, and then frowned, watching as Irene started to get into Greg’s car as they approached. “Hey!” he called, beckoning at her with a wave of his hand as she straightened up. “Why don’t you ride with us?” he suggested, gesturing between him and Sherlock, who, if he had any objections to John automatically claiming him as a passenger, didn’t voice them. “There’ll be more room.”

“No, thanks,” Irene declined with a shake of her head. “Mike was halfway through a story, and I simply _must_ hear the end of it.” She beamed, so bright it could only be disingenuous, and dropped into the car without another word, the taillights igniting and rolling away from them a moment later.

John stared after the car, a blush crawling up his neck, his only comfort being that Sherlock seemed equally stunned. “Well,” he croaked, clearing his throat, “that was…”

“Subtle?”

“Not exactly the word I was looking for,” John replied, and Sherlock laughed, shaking his head after the car as John turned around to smile at him.

Grey eyes dropped to his, Sherlock’s laughter fading to a shy smile before his gaze moved to his trainers. “I, er- I suppose we should-” he murmured, trailing away with a vague gesture out at the car park, and John rattled his head, drawing himself back to the moment.

“Right,” he clipped, bobbing his head in the direction of his car, and Sherlock dutifully followed, neither of them speaking until they’d reached the small green automobile. “Sorry,” John muttered as he noticed the textbooks in the passenger seat, reaching up between the seats to snatch them out of the way after storing his bag and ice pack in the back. “I’ve been, er, taking them to work.”

Sherlock quirked a brow. “Customer service isn’t terrible enough already?” he quipped, and John laughed, opening the driver door before closing the back one so as not to cut off the conversation.

“Oh no, it is,” he countered as he twisted the key in the ignition. “Studying immunology on my breaks is actually the highlight of my day.”

“Really?” Sherlock pressed, eyes glittering with the green lights of the dashboard as John pulled out onto the street. “It’s not the morning rush?”

“God, no!” John blurted, and Sherlock laughed. “I usually don’t work mornings, but, sometimes, when someone has to switch or whatever, I’ll get stuck with it. Like tomorrow,” he said with false cheer. “Molly’s paired with one of the new hires for training, so I’m working 6 to noon.”

Sherlock grimaced in sympathy, his gaze then falling to his hands twisting in his lap. “When do you normally work, then?” he asked, quieter now, and John’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, the innocent question nevertheless sending his stomach into somersaults.

“Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday,” he supplied, glancing at Sherlock while they waited at a red light. “3 to close.”

“Long shift,” Sherlock remarked, and John shrugged, pressing down on the accelerator.

“It’s not so bad, and I’ve got Molly with me.”

“You two always work together?”

John nodded, scanning both ways before quickly making his turn. “Pretty much, unless one of us has to switch for some reason.”

Sherlock bobbed his head, looking out at the street ahead of them, and John stole glances at him in the silence, his fingers shifting anxiously against the steering wheel.

The headlights of passing motorists cast rolling shadows across the man’s face, pinpricks of light growing wider in his eyes until they vanished to darkness once more. Every now and again they’d pass a sign, neon growing more and more prominent as they neared the main hub for students after dark, and it would paint Sherlock’s pale face like an ever-changing canvas, swaths of red and yellow blending seamlessly to blue and back again.

John swallowed, biting hard at his lip as he focused on the road, trying to ease the pounding of his heart.

It was strange, knowing something about Sherlock that the man hadn’t intended him to know, and it was starting to weigh on John, a knot growing steadily thicker in his throat. How silly it seemed to be wasting time on small talk, to be discussing work hours and academia when all John wanted to do was tell him that he liked the mint green shirt the best, that he should perhaps invest in one of those ridiculous looking sweatbands so his hair wouldn’t fall in his eyes while he danced, that his cheekbones were otherworldly, that the Mariana Trench dreamed of one day being as deep as his voice, that he’d outright lied about the highlight of his day, because immunology had nothing on watching Sherlock dance, on watching Sherlock do anything, really, because he was the kind of beautiful that needed a grander word John could never hope to find.

But, instead, he said nothing, just gripped the steering wheel until his fingers were surely leaving imprints in the plastic and tried to think of a subtle way to ask if Sherlock perhaps enjoyed ballet.

“John?”

“What?” He snapped his head around, finding Sherlock scanning his face, an eyebrow slowly rising.

“I asked why you always go to Angelo’s after matches,” he evidently repeated, searching between John’s eyes before John had to look back to the road. “Are you sure you don’t have a concussion to go along with your dislocated shoulder?”

“It wasn’t dislocated.”

“So, no comment on the concussion?”

“I don’t have a concussion,” John snapped, and Sherlock chuckled.

“If you insist,” he murmured, smiling smugly out at the street as John glared.

He then rattled his head, dismissing the irritation with a small huff through his nose. “Angelo’s is open late,” he explained as they paused at a red light, Sherlock’s face awash with the bright color as he turned. “2am on the weekends. And the owner’s nephew went to QMU, so he always gives us a discount.”

Sherlock nodded, his face turning to the window as a passing group of young men suddenly burst into drunken howls of laughter. “Does the whole team go?” he asked as they began moving again, and John shook his head.

“No, not everyone,” he said, turning down the small side street that led to the back of the restaurant, their consistent patronage giving them the privilege of parking in the employee section instead of scouring the streets for a spot. “Not yet, anyway, but more seem to tag along every time. Everyone generally meets up afterward for a drink, though.”

“You don’t go?” Sherlock pressed, shrugging a shy shoulder when John turned to him curiously. “Just the way you said it,” he muttered. “You weren’t including yourself in the ‘everyone’.”

John blinked, frowning at the man a moment before turning into the car park, twisting the wheel to pull into a spot. “Remind me to never try and lie to you,” he remarked, and Sherlock smiled, dropping his eyes to his knees.

“Are you planning on needing to?” he asked, and John shrugged.

“You never know,” he said, tugging the key out of the ignition before reaching behind him to pull his rugby jacket from the backseat. “You might think you can sing or something. Wanna try out for _Britain’s Got Talent_.”

“I can’t sing,” Sherlock replied as they opened their doors, stepping out onto the asphalt, “but I think I’d rather you tell me the truth before I embarrassed myself on national television regardless.”

“I never did understand that,” John mused, shaking his head as he rattled his arms down the sleeves of his jacket, his shoulder pain nearly negligible now. “How those people get all that way and no one ever told them they weren’t any good.”

“I imagine it’s rather difficult for some people to tell someone they’re awful.”

“Some people?”

“Well, I’ve never had any trouble with it,” Sherlock answered, smiling as John laughed, pulling open the back door and waving the taller man ahead of him.

They walked up the narrow corridor in silence, the sounds of familiar laughter and mocking growing louder as they neared the threshold of the restaurant’s main room, and Sherlock subtly slowed just before they broke into view, letting John lead the way into the unfamiliar territory.

“Ay, there he is!” Greg announced, throwing his arms out as he stood, the rest of the room turning to look as the older man swept around the table to sling an arm around John’s shoulder. “The man of the hour!”

“Already drinking, I see,” John muttered, and Greg sniffed, shaking his head as he released John from his side.

“Hardly. Haven’t even finished half a bitter,” he said, smiling at Sherlock in mute greeting before bobbing his head back toward the long table that had been pieced together for them against the wall, pointedly distant from the handful of other patrons. “Come on, we saved you a seat. Well, two seats,” he added, smirking over his shoulder, and John was grateful Sherlock was behind him, unable to see his glare.

In addition to Molly, Irene, and Mike, a handful of John’s teammates had also joined the group, nodding up at John as he passed before returning to their excited conversations, but the spots saved for him and Sherlock were removed from most of the action, down at the end of the table with Molly and Irene across from them, and Greg and Mike seated next to John. He doubted Greg or Mike would have thought much about the seating arrangement, but he wouldn’t put it past Molly and Irene, and, predictably, the two pairs were engrossed in their own conversations, leaving John and Sherlock with no one to talk to but each other.

Glancing up and down the table, John saw only drinks, a few people still frowning and poking at their menus, and grabbed one of the laminated cards from the center of the table, passing it to Sherlock before someone appeared to take their order. “Here,” he said as the man’s long fingers took the menu. “Everything’s good, and there’s vegetarian options in that box in the corner if you-”

“I don’t,” Sherlock interjected, shaking his head as his eyes scanned over the black print. “Why do they serve cheeseburgers and lasagna?” he asked, frowning up at John, who laughed, shrugging a shoulder and glancing down at the menu.

“They know their clientele?” John suggested, and Sherlock tipped his head at the point. “You seen the cheeseburger that has nachos on it yet?”

“What!?” Sherlock blurted, visibly appalled, and John laughed, tapping down at the description.

“It’s actually not bad,” he said as Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. “Mind you, I was plastered when I tried it, but, still, it sounds much stranger than-”

“John!”

John turned, finding the hulking figure of Angelo emerging from the kitchen door behind him, the man’s red face breaking into a broad grin beneath twinkling eyes. “Hey, Angelo,” he replied, the man’s smile infectious, and Angelo let out a hearty chuckle, clapping John on the shoulder with a soft shake.

“So, you won again?” he said, beaming with pride, and John ducked his face to the table, smiling shyly at the praise. “Are you going to lose at all this season?”

“There’s some tough matches coming up,” John replied, and Angelo scoffed, removing his hand as he shook his head.

“Not tough enough, I don’t think,” he countered, giving John a firm nod, and then turned his attention to Sherlock, who seemed to have been perfectly content being invisible, but smiled politely all the same.

“Oh, er, Angelo, this is Sherlock,” John interceded, Sherlock giving a nod while Angelo grinned. “He’s, er…a friend,” he finished stiltedly, Sherlock lifting an amused brow while John suddenly became fascinated by the tablecloth.

“A friend, eh?” Angelo echoed, adding in a wink to prove things could always get worse. “Well, always nice to see a fresh face. Get tired of looking at this same lot every weekend,” he quipped, his booming laugh easing the tension somewhat. “So,” he continued, clapping his hands together as he smiled between them, “what can I get ya?”

In spite of John’s glowing recommendation, Sherlock opted for water and lasagna over the nacho-topped burger, John getting his usual cherry coke and personal cheese pizza, and the evening passed rapidly around them, the loud babble of the rest of the table fading away as they talked quietly amongst themselves.

It was almost as easy to talk to Sherlock as it was to listen to him, although John did have to be careful not to get distracted by simply watching his lips move. Eventually, however, that was no longer a problem, Sherlock’s words far too fascinating not to constantly hang off of.

He’d grown up wealthy, his family still owning a sizable estate in Sussex, but had never spent much time there, living at various boarding schools in London all the way up until university, sometimes even through the summer holidays. He was never at one school for too long, however, managing to get himself expelled for reasons ranging from talking back to teachers to setting the chemistry lab on fire, and John wasn’t sure he’d ever laughed so hard in his life, choking on cherry cola in what he was sure was an appallingly unattractive fashion. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, though, simply smiling at him as John struggled to compose himself, and then went on, talking about his brother—seven years his senior and currently working for the government—and his parents—both of them now deceased, although he’d shrugged off John’s awkward sympathy.

“It was a long time ago,” he said, flipping a hand in the air, and then went on to explain he was now living in a flat building owned by a family friend, Mrs. Hudson, whom he clearly adored, his eyes softening as he regaled John with anecdote after anecdote of her hilarious reactions to his gone-awry experiments.

The experiments themselves, John couldn’t quite follow, understanding only the odd word here and there when Sherlock hastily explained them, but he certainly heard quite clearly when the man said something about solving a murder.

“Wait, what?” he interjected, lifting a hand between them as he hastily swallowed a bite of crust. “A-A murder? Why are you solving a murder?”

Sherlock quirked a puzzled brow. “Shouldn’t someone?” he replied, holding John’s gaze as he blinked at him, mouth flapping soundlessly as he struggled for a response, and then seemed to take pity, smiling softly as he shifted at the sauce on his plate with a fork. “I call in tips to Scotland Yard,” he explained, shrugging a shoulder as if that were a perfectly normal pastime. “Or I used to, anyway. Now, they tend to call me. Well, one detective does, anyway, D.I. Wilmot.”

“Reece Wilmot?” John asked, and Sherlock snapped his head up, eyes wide with curious surprise. “He’s Greg’s uncle,” John explained, bobbing his head back toward his teammate. “Greg’s gonna start training there after graduation.”

“Oh,” Sherlock murmured, brow furrowing as he looked between John and the back of Greg’s head, the man too engaged in what sounded to be a drunken fight over the latest _Fast and Furious_ movie to hear his name, “I-I didn’t know that.”

John smiled, chuckling softly at the look of complete befuddlement on the man’s face. “Well, don’t have an identity crisis,” he teased, and Sherlock sneered, the expression turning into a smile as he returned to pushing at his food. “You can’t expect to know everything.”

“No,” Sherlock replied, tipping his head, “I suppose not.”

John watched him a moment, and then turned back, shaking his head fondly at a slurring Greg. “Weird coincidence though, isn’t it?” he asked, but looked back to find Sherlock shaking his head.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said firmly, and clearly not for the first time, but John only lifted a brow, frowning as he scanned the man’s face.

“You don’t?” he questioned, and then man shook his head again. “Then what’s the alternative?”

Sherlock looked up at him, forehead creasing quizzically. “What do you mean?” he pressed, sounding almost frustrated as he searched through John’s eyes.

John shrugged, comfortable enough now not to be cowed by the intensity of the gaze. “Well, if something’s not a coincidence,” he began, rolling a hand in the air, “then what is it? Fate?”

Sherlock scoffed, mouth opening with clear intent to retort, but he just as quickly faltered, lips slowly drifting shut as his brow furrowed thoughtfully down at the table. “I-I don’t know,” he breathed, eyes darting aimlessly over the white tablecloth. “I’ve never thought about it.” He was quiet a long moment, gaze sharpening as his forehead twitched in and out of pensive creases, and John eventually cleared his throat, seeming to startle him out of a trance.

“Well, either way,” he said, “it’s still sort of funny. And, hey, who knows?” he added brightly, shrugging his shoulder, “you might end up working with Greg one day!”

Sherlock chuckled, glancing past John toward the man, and then laughed properly, lifting the backs of his fingers to his lips as he tried to muffle the sounds. “Something tells me that won’t be for a while yet,” he said, bobbing his head up the table, and John turned, chuckling himself as he caught sight of the man carving out bites of his burger with a spoon.

“I feel safer already,” he sighed, turning back to Sherlock as the man laughed, shaking his head down at the remnants of lasagna he seemed to have dissected to get all the pasta out.

They then fell silent, John spinning his straw through the melting ice of his drink as he checked his watch.

“Bloody hell!” he blurted, Sherlock’s eyes startling up to him. “It’s nearly 12!” he cried, turning the watch out for Sherlock’s wide eyes to see.

“What?” Irene interjected, snatching her phone from her purse and double-checking. “Shit, I’ve gotta go! Last train to Belsize Park’s in half an hour.”

“Belsize Park?” Molly echoed, frowning as she watched her friend frantically rummage through her purse, pulling out a handful of notes and tossing them onto the table. “That’s pretty far to go on your own.”

“I’ll be fine,” Irene assured, batting a hand at her. “I do it all the time.”

“I can go with her,” Sherlock interjected, grating his chair out across the floor, John’s stomach collapsing through the hardwood with disappointment. “I’m going up to Baker Street. I’ll just take her home and then walk back through Camden.”

“That’s at least half an hour,” Molly objected, but Sherlock only shrugged.

“45 minutes, but it’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

“After midnight?” Molly countered, and Sherlock fell silent.

“I’ll drive you,” John said, the words rushing over his lips the instant the idea dawned on him, and he stood quickly before anyone could object, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and counting out enough to cover both his and Sherlock’s meals, Sherlock almost seeming not to notice apart from a faint narrowing of his eyes as John pressed the notes against the tablecloth. “I live nearby anyway.”

Sherlock gave him a skeptical look that he quickly avoided, turning his eyes to Irene and smiling as the woman sighed with relief.

“That’d be great. I mean, if-if you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“Not at all,” John assured, shaking his head, and then turned to Molly, “but what are you-”

“I’ll get her home,” Mike interjected, smiling across at the brunette in question. “I’ll just take Greg’s car. Drop her off and then probably stay at his,” he added, bobbing his head toward Greg, who was blinking blearily at the condensation rolling down his latest unfinished pint. “You gonna go home after?”

“Yeah,” John confirmed, pulling his keys from his pocket. “I got the early shift tomorrow.”

Mike cringed in sympathy, and then lifted a hand. “Well, see ya tomorrow then,” he bade, John returning the gesture with a nod, and then waved out at the table at large, several groggy farewells following him down the corridor as he, Sherlock, and Irene made their way to the car park.

Opening the back door, he hastily shuffled his gym bag and textbooks out of the way, expecting Sherlock to take the vacant spot, but Irene slid in past him, swatting him aside as he made to protest.

“I wanna lie down,” she said, buckling herself in before tipping sideways onto the haphazard pile of John’s things. “And can you drop me off first? Sherlock knows the way.”

“Er, yeah, sure,” John replied, gently closing the door before rounding the car, dropping into the driver’s seat just as Sherlock closed the passenger door.

In unison, they turned toward the backseat, Irene’s eyes already closed as she rested her head on John’s textbooks, and Sherlock shook his head, John chuckling as they looked back to the windshield. The car revved to life, John trying to avoid as many bumps and divots in the road as possible as he made his way north, the car silent apart from Irene’s slow breaths and the steady hum of the tires.

“So,” Sherlock said eventually, pale fingers tapping against his knee, “you live with Mike, then?”

John just nodded, a quick enough study to know it would be easier to not ask Sherlock how he knew these things. “Yeah, ever since we started. Just got lucky with roommate selection the first year, and then we moved into a flat off-campus.”

“And Greg?”

“Know him from rugby,” John explained, pausing at a pedestrian crossing as a group of students wobbled past. “He lives with some other guys on the team.”

Sherlock nodded, watching after the staggering crew as the car rolled through the intersection. “Does your brother live in London too?”

“My what?” John asked, casting a sidelong frown at the man as they turned onto the main street.

“Your brother,” Sherlock repeated, looking equally perplexed. “The Swiss Army knife on your keychain,” he continued, nodding down toward the ignition. “It’s engraved. ‘Happy 18th, John. Love, Harry.’ It’s not exactly the kind of gift a friend would give you, so, unless you call your father by his first name…” He trailed off with a shrug, and John looked back to the road, hands shifting hesitantly on the steering wheel.

“Um, no, I- My dad’s…not around,” John muttered, swallowing as he kept his eyes fixed on the road, ignoring Sherlock’s face turning to him in his peripheral vision. “Left when I was nine. It’s just been me, Mum, and Harry ever since. Oh, and Harry’s not my brother,” he added, flashing the man a quick smile. “Harry’s short for Harriet.”

“Sister?” Sherlock inquired, and John nodded, the car then falling silent as the forecasted spring rain began dotting the windshield. “Take a left at the light,” Sherlock advised, pointing up ahead, and John neatly merged into the appropriate lane, creeping forward into the intersection as he waited to complete his turn. “I- I’m sorry,” the man murmured after a moment, peering up at John through his lashes. “About-About your dad. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine,” John assured, dismissing the apology with a shake of his head. “It doesn’t really bother me anymore. I mean, it was over a decade ago.”

Sherlock did not immediately reply, his eyes fixed on the side of John’s face a long moment as they scanned over his skin. “Still,” he finally spoke, dropping his gaze to his lap, “I should’ve known not to mention it.”

John chuckled, shaking his head fondly as he chanced a glance at the man. “You really do think you know everything, don’t you?” he teased, and Sherlock smiled, albeit frailly.

“I usually do,” he replied, shrugging a shoulder as he turned to look out the window, the city lights catching in the rain droplets and leaving speckled shadows over his skin. “At least, I usually know things like that. Most people make it rather obvious.”

“Seriously?” John muttered, lifting his brows at the man. “You do realize you just set me up for one of those corny ‘I’m not most people’ lines, right?”

Sherlock laughed, tossing a fond look over his shoulder before returning to watching the streetlamps roll by. “Well, corny or not,” he said, his breath fogging the window faintly as he leaned close to peer up at the night sky, “you are…uncommon.”

“Uncommon?” John echoed, laughing as Sherlock shrugged.

“I don’t give compliments very often,” he defended, only making John laugh harder. “I’m rather out of practice.”

“Clearly!” John spluttered, grinning at Sherlock’s glare. “’Uncommon’. Sounds like I’m some rare disease you usually only find in…the southern American wetlands or something.”

“Well, you’d know more about that than I would.”

“See, now _that’s_ a compliment!”

“Not really. You’re studying medicine; I’m studying chemistry. It’s only natural you would know more about rare diseases than-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, a strange thrill he couldn’t quite comprehend running through him when the man dutifully fell silent, as if he was witnessing something significant he’d only appreciate in retrospect, “don’t ruin the moment.”

Sherlock blinked at him, mouth caught open, and then simply closed his lips, shaking his head with a frustration that carried no real heat. “Next right,” he muttered, bobbing his head at the road, and John chuckled, glancing over just in time to see the man’s stubbornly set lips twitch in a smile.

They talked a little more over what was left of the ride to Irene’s house, but mostly Sherlock just gave him directions, the rest of the time passed quite comfortably in silence as the rain grew to a steady drone on the roof. Pulling up in front of the brunette’s house, Sherlock reached immediately for the door handle, but John stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm, blinking dazedly at breaking the touch barrier a moment before remembering why he’d done it and rattling his head clear.

“I, um- Hold on,” he said, sliding his hand away from the dark wool of the man’s coat. “I-I have an umbrella.” He bent his arm into the backseat, rummaging around on the floor before locating the plastic handle, and then pulled the object up between them, handing it across to Sherlock.

The man bobbed the umbrella at him in wordless thanks, and then swept out the door, unfurling the black plastic over his head before slamming the passenger door and opening the one at Irene’s head.

“Hmm?” Irene hummed, rousing at the sound, and Sherlock chuckled, holding the umbrella aloft behind him as he leaned into the car. “Wha-What’s going on?”

“We’re at your flat,” Sherlock explained, and Irene sat up with a sigh, tucking her hair behind her ears and gathering her purse up off the floor.

She started shuffling toward the door, stopping a moment to press a hand to her temple as she winced, her pained groan cut off with a glare as Sherlock smirked down at her. “Shut up,” she grumbled, and Sherlock laughed, leaning back to hold the umbrella over her as she clumsily rose out of the car.

“I keep telling you,” he muttered, shaking his head at the woman as she planted a hand on the door for balance. “You have _got_ to hydrate before you start drinking.”

Irene hissed at him, turning her middle finger out in the air, but Sherlock only smiled, stepping back as she rounded the car door onto the pavement. “You still have a key, right?” she asked, and Sherlock nodded. “Good, because I don’t feel like digging mine out of my purse. Thank you,” she added, turning around and leaning back inside to smile at John. “For the ride.”

“No problem,” John assured with a shake of his head, and Irene’s tired smile broadened slightly.

“I’m sure I’ll see you around,” she said in farewell, her eyes glinting with mischief as Sherlock’s face turned to stone at her back, but John only nodded, smiling blithely back.

“I’m sure you will,” he replied, Irene lifting her brows at him a moment before closing the door between them, and then clung close to Sherlock’s side beneath the umbrella as they made their way to the front of her building, Sherlock producing a key ring from his pocket and opening the door.

The window was streaked with rain, and the lights of the flat entrance turned the two figures into silhouettes more than it illuminated them, but John could see Irene’s lips moving, the red lines of her mouth curling up into a smile as she spoke. Presumably, Sherlock replied, and the woman then laughed, leaning forward to drop a quick kiss to the tall man’s cheek before ducking inside, bending down to throw a wave back to John through the car window before disappearing down a corridor to the left.

Sherlock swept briskly back down the steps, coat flowing out behind him like Cinderella escaping the ball, and then clamored back into John’s car, collapsing the umbrella and shaking it off outside before gingerly replacing it on the floor of the backseat. He huffed a breath, rattling some of the rain from his hair, and then turned to John with an expectant smile, but, if he was expecting anything other than John blinking dazedly at him, lips slightly parted while his mouth went dry, he was certainly disappointed. He only looked confused, however, a faint crease shadowing the skin between his brows as he tilted his head, and John cleared his throat, hands trembling faintly on the steering wheel as he turned back to the road.

“So, er,” he muttered, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck, “how do I get to Baker Street from here?”

Sherlock stared at him a moment, eyes scanning in a single shrewd sweep across John’s face, and then burst into laughter, throwing his skull back against the headrest. “You don’t live anywhere _near_ here, do you?”

John opened his mouth, lips shifting aimlessly as Sherlock continued to cackle. “I- Define ‘near’.”

Sherlock shook his head, still grinning wildly as his laughter eased. “Guess you were planning on lying to me after all,” he quipped, and John chuckled.

“Well,” he murmured, shrugging a shoulder, “it was for a good cause.”

Sherlock laughed again at that, and John smiled, still watching when the man’s grey eyes lifted back to his in the dimly lit car. They lingered there a moment, eyes locked together across the center console, and then simultaneously tore away, Sherlock coughing this time around. “Er, you have to…turn around,” he muttered, his finger whirling a gesture in the air. “To-To get to Baker Street.”

“Right,” John confirmed, clipping a stiff nod, and then pulled back out onto the road, swinging through a few side streets before heading back the opposite direction. He didn’t know quite what to say after that, the air in the car growing thicker and thicker as he felt their time running short, and, eventually, he simply went with the first thing he thought of. “I hope it wasn’t too boring,” he said, glancing at Sherlock’s puzzled expression out of the corner of his eye. “Watching the match. I know they can get a bit slow sometimes.”

“Oh,” Sherlock murmured, shaking his head, “no, it-it wasn’t boring at all.”

John turned, smiling across at the man as they slowed to a stop at an intersection. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” Sherlock chuckled, grinning as John laughed. “I’d never been to one before. Always figured it’d be rather…tedious.”

“Tedious?” John parroted, quirking a brow. He then sighed, shaking his head out at the darkness as the car rolled underneath the now-green light. “You pick the strangest adjectives,” he mused, and Sherlock laughed, leaning forward to point a finger up ahead.

“Right up there,” he directed, hand bobbing in the air. “Onto Marylebone.”

John nodded, turning onto the busier street, but it was still more scarcely populated than normal on the damp night. “You’d really never been to a match before?” he asked as they continued along their route, and Sherlock shook his head. “How’d you manage that? Some of those schools you went to are, like, _renowned_ for their rugby teams, aren’t they?”

“I suppose,” Sherlock shrugged, shifting his gaze out the window. “It just- I never- I don’t think I would’ve been welcome,” he concluded, glancing back with a weary smile, and John shifted his hands on the wheel, mind casting about for a possible change in topic.

“Well,” he muttered, twitching a shoulder, “if I’d known it was gonna be your first match, I would’ve had you wait until we were further along in the finals. That’s when all the exciting matches happen.”

“Really?” Sherlock questioned, and John nodded, turning to him briefly as traffic slowed.

“Yeah, it gets pretty wild, and everyone goes absolutely _mad_ at the final.”

“You think you’ll get that far?” Sherlock asked, head tilted thoughtfully, and John shrugged, fingers lifting and resettling on the wheel.

“I hope so,” he replied. “I mean, I think we’re good enough to make it, but it all comes down to the day, really.”

Sherlock hummed in understanding, nodding out at the windshield. “That next light’s Baker Street,” he said, pointing at the blinking yellow up ahead. “Just take a right, and then the flat’s gonna be up on the left.”

“Alright,” John said with a nod, but his mind was frantic, a lump growing in his throat as the intersection closed in, make or break time suddenly upon him, and he was just about to resign himself to cowardice when the solution came to him like a hallelujah chorus carried through clouds on a sunbeam. “There’s another game in a couple weeks,” he said, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze in case his face somehow betrayed how hard his heart was pounding. “If-If you wanted to-”

“Yeah,” Sherlock interjected, nodding down at his lap as his fingers twisted together. “That- I’d- Yeah.”

John tried to keep his grin under control, but he still probably looked a couple kinds of crazy as he turned to Sherlock, the man’s grey gaze filtered up to him through dark lashes. “Well alright, then,” he said brightly as he took the final turn onto Baker Street, beaming across as Sherlock let out a soft laugh. Taking a deep breath, he swallowed down his nerves, enacting the final stage of his heaven-sent plan with only faintly trembling fingers. “You, er- Here,” he blurted, fishing his mobile out of his pocket and passing it across to the man. “You can just, er, put your number in, and I’ll…text you the time and-and place and whatnot.”

Sherlock blinked at the mobile hovering between them, shock turning to suspicion as his eyes flicked up to John’s face, but his expression just as quickly smoothed, a fragile smile curling his lips as he gently slipped the phone from John’s grasp. “Alright,” he said softly, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the ungodly glow of John’s screen, and then navigated to the contact list, tapping over the keypad as John bit his cheek to keep from beaming. “It’s just before that red awning,” he stated, John frowning out into the darkness a moment in confusion, and then remembered there was a reason other than flirting that Sherlock was in his car, and pulled over beside the curb just shy of the aforementioned awning, bold white letters proclaiming ‘Speedy’s’ stretched across the face of the plastic.

Shifting the car into park, John then turned to his passenger, taking the phone Sherlock mutely passed back across the seat. “Thanks,” he said, Sherlock’s identical sentiment overlaying his own, and they blinked at one another in surprise a moment before simultaneously dissolving into laughter, John looking toward the dashboard while Sherlock looked down at his lap.

“Well, er,” Sherlock murmured once the car had grown quiet again, pointing a thumb back out the window to the painted black door behind him, the porch light reflecting brightly off the polished ‘221B’ affixed to the surface, “guess I’ll…see you later?”

John felt like his heart was going through medieval torture, pinched and pulled violently as Sherlock peered up through his lashes with eyes that had no reason to hold a question, and, before his brain was even commanding it, John found himself nodding. “Yeah,” he confirmed, perhaps a little firmer than necessary, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, half his mouth tugged up in an asymmetrical smile as he dropped his eyes. “For sure,” he added, and Sherlock let out a startled little laugh that knocked the wind out of John for the second time that day.

“Okay then,” the man mumbled, meeting John’s gaze in fleeting glances before turning away, pushing open the door and stepping out onto the pavement, the rain falling in a more tolerable mist now. “Thanks for the ride,” he added, bending down to smile back at John through the door, and John couldn’t help but beam.

“Any time,” he said brightly, and Sherlock laughed, shaking his head fondly as he straightened back up.

“Well…goodnight,” he blurted, and John chuckled, stomach spinning as the porch light grazed over Sherlock’s pink cheekbones.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John replied, his tone downright gooey, but he couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed when it only made Sherlock blush brighter, avoiding John’s gaze as he hastily closed the door and walked up the steps to 221B, head bowed as he fumbled with his keys. John lingered until he saw the door open, Sherlock stepping safely inside, and then shifted the car into drive, looking back up just in time to catch Sherlock turning around.

The man lifted a hand, flicking a pale wave at him through the hazy shower, and John promptly returned the gesture, staring at the door with a dazed smile for several moments after Sherlock had closed it.

Finally able to grin like an idiot, he did so with reckless abandon, driving back through the London streets on muscle memory more than conscious thought, sure his mobile was somehow literally burning against his thigh, and, the second he closed his flat door behind him 20 minutes later, he pulled the phone out, scrolling through the contacts to find the new one just below Sarah. He beamed down at the name, biting his lip to try and keep it under control, and then remembered there was no one at the flat but him, a smug shoulder-shake of a dance quickly joining his crazed grin.

Still internally congratulating himself on landing a date with Mr. Ballet—dammit, now he was doing it!—he toed off his trainers, heading into his bedroom intending to sleep like a rock, but paused just inside the doorway, eyes fixing on the mobile in his hand.

Two weeks was an _awfully_ long time…

Hesitating only a moment longer, he quickly turned around, closing his bedroom door against the nonexistent prying ears, and then sat down on the edge of his mattress, left hand tapping anxiously against his knee while the right scrolled through the contacts list, thumb hastily swiping across the name before he could think better of it. The first ring took ages, the second eons, and, by the time Sherlock answered, John was fairly certain he could’ve looked in the mirror and found a freshly grown beard. Still, he wasn’t prepared for the sound of Sherlock’s voice, different as it was converted in and out of wavelengths, but still uniquely his—low, sharp, and the kind of posh that you really wanted to make say profanities.

“Hello?”

John pinched his eyes shut, tilting the receiver away from his mouth as he drew in a quick steadying breath. “Hey, Sherlock, it’s-it’s John. John Watson, from-from earlier.”

Sherlock chuckled, the sound practically buzzing up John’s spine. “I don’t think 25 minutes is quite long enough to forget you.”

“How long would it take, then?” John rejoined, and then cringed, horrified by his pathological flirting, but Sherlock didn’t appear perturbed, humming in faux consideration.

“Maybe an hour,” he replied, startling John into a laugh. “Two on the outside.”

“Cheers,” John said drily, Sherlock’s faint huff of amusement drifting across the line in reply, and then they went quiet, John’s heel beginning to bounce erratically against the floor as he steeled himself to speak. “So, I was thinking,” he blurted, trying his damnedest to summon the much more capable version of himself that usually handled date invitations. “Or, well, wondering, I guess,” he muttered, already off to a brilliant start, “if you might- If you would-” He paused, shaking his head and internally screaming at himself, his hand clenching to a fist on his knee as he rallied. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked, catching even himself off-guard, uncertain when exactly he’d decided he was going to move quite that quickly.

Absolute silence greeted his question, nothing but the pounding of John’s own heart meeting his ears, and, after checking twice that the call hadn’t dropped, he ventured a soft prompt. “Sherlock?”

“Sorry,” the man blustered, the sound unexpectedly loud to John’s eager ears, “I-I just...wasn’t expecting… Tomorrow?”

John grimaced, sure he’d overstepped, and quickly formulated an escape, Confident John finally showing up to do his part. “Well, can’t leave it too long,” he said, throwing in a chuckle to further the façade. “Somebody else might take you to your first opera tomorrow. Blow my rugby match right outta the water.”

Sherlock laughed, a rustling sound carrying down the line, as if the man were shaking his head against the receiver. “I think you’re severely overestimating my popularity.”

“Or you’re severely underestimating it,” John countered, grinning smugly at his own line, and Sherlock was quiet a long moment before awkwardly clearing his throat.

“I, um- I can’t tomorrow,” he muttered, John’s stomach threatening to roll up his throat before the man hastily explained. “There’s this movie thing the society puts on once a month. Usually we just use one of the auditoriums, but, when the weather’s warm enough, we set up a projector on the roof of the student center. Irene wants me there early tomorrow to help set up. Well, she says ‘help’,” he added irritably. “It’s usually just me doing all the work while she tells me to move things two inches to the left.”

John laughed, shuffling further back on his mattress as he crossed his legs. “Sounds like fun. The movie thing, I mean,” he clarified, and Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

“I suppose. I’m just hoping it doesn’t rain.”

“That happen before?”

“Once,” Sherlock replied, a soft scraping sound surrounding his voice, like a dresser drawer being pulled out and closed. “Last year. We’d put a tarp over the projector just in case, but the screen was _drenched_. Took three days to dry properly.”

John chuckled, turning around to pull his pillow from the head of the bed before flopping down onto it, staring up at the ceiling as he bit his lip, mentally constructing his next sentence. “Ya know, I only work until noon,” he started, shrugging an unseen shoulder against his navy duvet. “I could come by after. Help you lot with the setup.”

Sherlock was quiet a long moment, John holding his breath while he listened to the dancer’s. “You-You would do that?” he finally asked, and John smiled, a fond warmth growing in his chest at the man’s hesitant voice.

“Yeah, why not?” he replied brightly. “So long as I can stay for the movie. And there’s gotta be popcorn,” he added, and Sherlock laughed, John’s lips pulled up in an accompanying grin.

“There will be popcorn, but we have to make all of it,” he answered, and John hummed, unconcerned.

“Tastes better when you have to work for it, anyway.”

“Voice of experience?”

“Yeah, I always find my food’s better when I pick up a takeaway rather than having it delivered,” John said, and Sherlock laughed, John’s mouth straining at the corners as he grinned along. “But, yeah, I’d-I’d like to come along,” he continued, pulling the conversation back in line. “If- I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“No,” Sherlock was quick to clarify, phone hissing with the movement of his shaking head. “No, I-I don’t mind. We don’t have to be there till 6, though.”

“That’s fine,” John said, leg bobbing against the mattress with restrained excitement. “Gives me time to eat first. And change into something that doesn’t smell like coffee.”

Sherlock chuckled, nearly obscuring the small squeaking sound coming down the line, but John could still distinguish the faint creaks of what he thought might be mattress springs, and the image of him and Sherlock both chatting away on their beds like teenagers in a BBC soap opera was so insufferably adorable, he simultaneously wanted to vomit and doodle hearts around their initials. “There are worse things,” he remarked, his voice adopting an ease that made John’s eyelids heavy. “A boy I went to secondary school with worked at Pizza Express. You could find him anywhere just by following the garlic.”

John chuckled, his eyes blinking slower and slower up at the shadowed ceiling. “Which secondary school?”

“Ha ha,” Sherlock said without humor, but John laughed, head rolling to the side as the phone pressed warm against his ear.

He didn’t notice himself drifting off until Sherlock’s voice pulled him back, calling his name for what he hoped was the first time. “Hmm?” he hummed, and Sherlock chuckled, the sound watery to John’s drowsy ears.

“Did you fall asleep?” Sherlock asked, and John shook his head a moment before realizing he’d have to verbalize.

“No,” he assured, but Sherlock didn’t appear to buy it, laughing gently as the familiar creaking sound appeared again.

“I have to get up early too,” he said, and it was a mark of how tired John was that he didn’t immediately realize Sherlock was referring to his early shift at the café. “Probably should call it a night.”

“Mhmm,” John managed to mumble, smiling absentmindedly as Sherlock laughed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the student center,” he said, and John nodded against his pillow.

“Tomorrow,” he echoed, a small huff of amusement greeting the mumbled word.

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock said, the smile in his voice made visible behind John’s closed eyelids, and John sighed, wriggling deeper into the warm cotton of his pillow.

“Night, Sh’lock,” he murmured back, a low chuckle the last sound he heard before sleep swept him away.

*********

“You fell asleep on the _phone_!?”

John had been blushing all the way through the process of recounting the previous evening to Molly, but his cheeks now burned especially hot, and he glared at the half-disgusted expression on the woman’s face as she looked up at him from across the counter, having stopped in during the slow stretch of his shift to demand every detail. “No,” he snapped, and Molly dropped her chin with a skeptical look. “We were off the phone before I fell asleep.”

“Barely,” Molly scoffed, and then chuckled at John’s narrowed eyes. “Well, he hasn’t called to cancel your date yet,” she continued, shrugging a shoulder as she moved along the exterior of the counter, following John over to the sink, “so it couldn’t have been _that_ bad.”

“It wasn’t bad at all,” John blustered, sighing exasperatedly when Molly only smiled. “And it’s not a date,” he grumbled, tapping his fingers into the stream of water to test if it was hot enough. “I’m just…helping out.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?” Molly drawled, waggling her brows when John gave her a flat look, and then laughed, John turning away to rinse out one of the blenders. “So,” the girl continued after a time, folding her arms on the counter as she leaned forward, “he mention the ballet thing yet?”

“No,” John replied, shaking his head, his eyes automatically pulled across the street, but the studio window remained dark. “It hasn’t really come up, though,” he added with a shrug, and Molly nodded thoughtfully down at the granite, biting at her bottom lip the way she always did when hesitating over whether to say something. “What?” John pressed, and the woman looked up at him, pausing a moment before sighing in resignation.

“Nothing, it’s just- Well, you know that spring arts celebration they do every year?” she began, and John nodded, having seen the flyers scattered around campus. “Well, Irene mentioned last night that Sherlock’s been practicing for it,” she explained, and John turned off the tap, looking up at her, intrigued. “She didn’t mention ballet specifically,” the girl amended, “but I don’t know what else it would be. And, when I got home, I checked the list of performances, and there is a ballet group from that studio.” She pointed across the street, John’s eyes following the line of her finger a moment before returning to her shrewd brown eyes. “I guess it’s where all the university dancers train.”

“Was his name on there?” John asked, and Molly shook her head, folding her arm back in.

“No, nobody’s was; it just listed performance groups. Still though, Irene said he was practicing for it,” she reminded. “I can’t think of anything else that could mean.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, nodding thoughtfully down at the stainless steel sink, his warped reflection nodding blurrily back at him. “Yeah, that makes sense. That’s next week, isn’t it?” he asked, and Molly nodded, her expression turning serious.

“It goes all next weekend,” she clarified, “but the ballet is on Saturday. 7pm.”

John nodded again, brow still furrowed as he placed the overturned blender on the drying rack.

“I-I could probably get tickets,” Molly said, John glancing up at her through his lashes. “Well, I mean, I know I _could_ —they never exactly sell out—but I’m saying we-”

“No, I-I know,” John interjected, biting at the inside of his cheek as he thought. “I mean, I _want_ to go, you know I want to go,” he muttered, turning a hand up at her, and Molly nodded, “but… Well, what if he doesn’t want me there?”

Molly frowned, tilting her head in confusion, and John sighed, running a hand back through his hair.

“I mean, he never exactly _lied_ about it,” he muttered, rolling a hand through the air, “but, still, there were times he _could_ have mentioned it and didn’t. What if he just doesn’t want me to know?”

Molly blinked, brow furrowing. “But…you do know,” she murmured, and John huffed.

“Well, yes, but, if he doesn’t _want_ me knowing, I can’t exactly just pop in for the show.”

“Sure, you can,” Molly countered, shoulders bobbing in a shrug. “Lots of people go to this thing. You don’t necessarily have to be going for him.”

“And then what?” John muttered. “I act absolutely _shocked_ to see him? I don’t want to lie any more than I already have. And it wouldn’t work anyway,” he added, folding his arms as he leaned a hip against the counter. “He’d know. I’m not exactly the ballet-enthusiast type.” He waved a hand down his body in gesture, and then sighed, lifting the same hand to squeeze at the growing tension in his neck. “I dunno, it’s probably better if I don’t go,” he mumbled, picking at a stain on his apron. “He might have friends there or something. Or his brother. I’d probably only embarrass him.”

“What?” Molly questioned, shaking her head perplexedly. “Embarrass him? What are you-” She paused, eyes blinking as her mouth slowly dropped. “John Watson,” she blurted, surprise quickly turning to affront, “are you actually being insecure right now!?”

“No!”

“You’ve never been insecure about anything!”

“You’ve only known me a year.”

“John!”

“Well, come on, Molly, think about it!” John blustered, throwing a hand out at his side as he rounded on the girl. “You must have heard some of that last night. His family has a bloody mansion in Sussex; he went to, like, eight different private schools, all with a claim to the best in the country; he’s a fucking _ballet_ dancer, and I-I spilled caramel frappé on myself earlier,” he finished, plucking at the spot on his apron he hadn’t managed to completely wipe clean. “It’s not exactly a world I fit into.”

“So?” Molly scoffed, shaking her head at him. “He’s friends with Irene; he can’t be that public school. And don’t sell yourself short like that!” she scolded, waggling a finger at him from over the counter. “You’re in _medical_ school, and captain of a championship rugby team on top of it,” she snipped, crossing her arms with a stern look. “He should be worried about fitting into _your_ world.”

John smiled, shaking his head fondly at the praise as his cheeks warmed. “I don’t know about that,” he murmured, turning away to unnecessarily fiddle with the espresso machine, “but, you’re right. I probably am overthinking it a bit.”

“A _bit_!?”

“Don’t push it,” John chided, twisting back to flap a rag at her, and Molly laughed, John smiling at her as he crossed back to the sink. “I dunno,” he sighed, draping the cloth over the faucet to dry, “I guess I’ll just try to bring it up, get him to mention it somehow. Then, I can go to the show _and_ never admit to being a peeping Tom.”

“Livin’ the dream,” Molly mused, looking wistfully off into the distance, and then giggling as she peeked back at John’s flat expression out of the corner of her eye. “I should go,” she said, turning toward the door, and John walked out around the counter to follow her. “Gotta get something to eat before my shift,” she added, and John whined, shoulders wilting in desperate longing at the thought of food. Molly chuckled, shaking her head fondly at him as she lightly gripped his shoulder in condolence. “Only two more hours,” she probably intended to encourage, but John only groaned, the girl rolling her eyes at his pain as she pulled open the door. “I’ll see you Tuesday,” she said, stepping halfway out onto the pavement, “but I’d better hear from you before then! I want to know _everything_ that happens at that movie tonight! Whatever happens after, though, you can leave out,” she added with a wink, and John didn’t even have time to muster a glare before she flit off, the bell jingling in her wake as she started away down the street.

John shook his head, watching after her until her bright mustard cardigan disappeared around a corner. He then sighed, his gaze once again inexorably drawn up the building across the street, but the window remained dark, nothing but reflections of the late morning sun looking back at him. Blinking back down to street level, he saw a couple heading toward the café, two young women swinging their intertwined hands between them as they laughed, and quickly made his way back behind the counter, glancing at the clock on the wall as he passed.

Seven hours and 52 minutes until he’d see Sherlock again. Although, he could probably be ten minutes early without seeming overeager. Maybe fifteen. Thirteen, he’d split the difference.

Nodding to himself in decision, he lifted his chin, smiling at the door as the bell sounded the couple’s arrival. “Good morning,” he greeted, wondering if he could actually hear the second hand clicking on the clock behind him, or if he truly had lost his mind over Sherlock Holmes. “What can I get you?”

*********

He should have just left it at deodorant, he knew it, and scowled at himself as he tugged at the collar of his jumper, sending a fresh wave of cologne rolling up his nostrils.

What did his sister know about picking out cologne, anyway? It could be a notoriously awful brand, or one of those scents that immediately conjured up images of linoleum floors and shuffleboard; John would never know the difference. If he’d been around, John would’ve asked Mike, but, alas, he’d tried on all three pairs of his jeans and four jumpers by himself before picking something and hoping for the best, spraying on a regrettable finishing touch of the cologne Harry had gotten him for Christmas just before rushing out the door.

Surreptitiously ducking his chin as he ascended from the underground station—the student center too close to his flat to merit driving—John once again sniffed at his collar, trying to ascertain just how tragic a mistake he’d made. It still smelled fine to him, maybe even nice if he were to attempt optimism, but he was really much more prone to anxiety at the moment, and was just considering the truly horrific possibility that Sherlock would be allergic to something in it when he found himself nearly passing the student center doors, time having flown by while he fretted.

He looked down at the door handles, blowing out a long breath as he smoothed the front of his dark grey jumper, trying to steady his nerves. After plucking a stray bit of lint off the sleeve of his rugby jacket, he stretched out an arm, fingers closing around the cold steel handle, and then paused, swallowing hard as his stomach turned. Giving himself a brisk nod of encouragement, he flung open the door, boldly striding inside with a confidence that quickly collapsed as he nearly ran headlong into Irene, the cardboard box in the woman’s hands teetering precariously in her grip.

“What the- Oh,” Irene said, anger fading to a smile as she met John’s eyes. “Hey, John. Sorry, I didn’t see ya there.”

“It’s fine,” he assured with a shake of his head. “My fault, really; I wasn’t looking.”

Irene smiled, shifting the box in her arms to reveal the paper plates and plastic cutlery inside, and John reached out, placing his hands on the cardboard sides.

“Here,” he urged, lifting the weight off her arms, “let me get that.”

“Well, look at that,” the woman quipped, flicking her brows at him. “A gentleman in this day and age. I was beginning to think you’d gone extinct.”

John chuckled, following after her as the woman continued her way down the corridor. “Nope, just endangered,” he replied, and Irene laughed, holding open a door for him before leading up the stairs.

“I’ll say,” she muttered, smirking back at him over her shoulder. “Not many people don’t even wait an hour before setting up a second date.”

John nearly dropped the box, stumbling on a step in surprise. “I-I didn’t- That wasn’t a date,” he spluttered, and Irene chuckled, shaking her head as they rounded the second floor landing and started up the next flight. “And this isn’t either, I’m just...helping out.”

“On a Saturday night?” Irene countered, lifting her brows back at him skeptically, and then smiled, shaking her head as she faced forward again. “Date or not,” she said, moving toward a propped-open door at the top of the stairs, spray-painted letters on the concrete wall marking it as roof access, “I’m glad for the help. Three of the people who were supposed to be here suddenly called in sick half an hour ago. Well, two of them called in sick,” she added with a tip of her head as they neared the last door, also propped open and letting in the yellow light of early evening. “One of them called in dead grandma, which I’m slightly more inclined to believe.”

John laughed, Irene smiling back at him, and then directed him to place the box atop a long table that had been set up near the tall railing surrounding the roof, an array of beverages and snack foods already littering the plastic surface. “How many people you expecting?” he asked, taking note of the spare liters of coke beneath the table, and Irene shrugged, beginning to unload the plates and utensils.

“It varies,” she replied. “Sometimes it’s 20, sometimes it’s closer to a hundred, but 50 or so is about average.”

“Seriously?” John blurted, taken aback, his eyes widening as Irene nodded. “Wow, that’s- I wouldn’t have thought that many people were free on a Saturday night.”

“You were,” Irene pointed out, quirking a brow, and then chuckled as John ducked his head with a blush. “We get a lot of singles,” she explained, stacking packages of paper plates beside the plastic cups. “Especially ones who don’t drink. Kind of hard to find an LGBT space that isn’t alcoholic, ya know? Or sexually charged,” she added, lining up bags of forks and knives beside the plates. “Some people just wanna make friends in the community, but you can’t exactly go to a gay bar looking for someone to swap best friends necklaces with,” she muttered, and John smiled, shrugging a shoulder as he began removing packages of napkins.

“I wouldn’t know,” he replied, shaking his head when Irene peered up at him curiously. “I’ve never been.”

“To a gay bar?” Irene clarified, mouth dropping as John nodded. “Are you- How have you not been to a gay bar!?”

“I probably don’t want to know, do I?”

John turned to where Sherlock had appeared at his left, frowning between the two of them with an increasingly wary expression, and John might have explained had his eyes not taken the liberty of scanning the man’s thin burgundy jumper and trim dark jeans, the image instantly paralyzing his tongue.

“John’s never been to a gay bar,” Irene spoke for him, shaking her head in disappointment, but Sherlock didn’t seem to share the sentiment.

“So?” he questioned, frowning at the woman. “You weren’t surprised when you found out I hadn’t been to one.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s you,” Irene snipped, John turning his trembling lips away to repress a smile while Sherlock glared. “You’d sooner jump off this roof than go within a hundred meters of a club.”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock agreed, shrugging a shoulder, and John laughed, the taller man turning at the sound to smile at him. “She’s already got you working, then?” he remarked, nodding his head down at the box on the table, and Irene huffed.

“Well, _somebody_ should be working,” she snipped, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I was setting out the chairs,” he muttered, waving a hand back at the large section of roof devoted to more beanbag chairs than John had ever seen in one place, or maybe in all places combined. “You think it’s cold enough to need the blankets?” he asked, and Irene looked up at the sky, squinting uncertainly.

“Probably not,” she answered, shaking her head as her eyes dropped back to him, “but bring up a few just in case. Don’t want people whining for coffee again.”

Sherlock smiled, giving a small nod, and then moved past them toward the stairwell, his eyes holding John’s a moment before he rounded his back.

John turned, glancing over his shoulder to follow the man’s retreat, and then quickly looked back to his task, stopping halfway through stacking another pile of napkins as he noticed Irene smirking at him. “What?” he muttered, growing warm with embarrassment, but the woman only chuckled, shaking her head fondly before lifting her chin and shouting out over John’s shoulder.

“Oh, and take this one with you,” she called, bobbing her head at John when Sherlock turned around. “He’s making a mess of my cutlery arrangement.”

“I never even-” John started in affront, but was cut off by Irene clearing her throat, lifting her eyebrows with a pointed look. Catching up, John swallowed, most certainly blushing furiously now, but he smiled at her all the same, putting the napkins back in the box before walking to meet Sherlock at the top of the stairs.

The man greeted him with a smile, but didn’t say anything at first, the two of them at the second floor landing before the silence was broken. “So,” Sherlock mused, voice wobbling slightly as he traversed the steps, “sleep well?”

“Shut up,” John muttered, and Sherlock laughed, John smiling grudgingly at the back of his head as they made their way down to the first floor.

There was no real need for him to be there to help carry the blankets, the folds of fabric not exactly heavy, but he took two of them anyway, Sherlock carrying another one at his side as they chatted their way back up the stairs. His help was slightly more necessary when it came to setting up the projector, although he did spend a disproportionate amount of time laughing at Sherlock’s increasingly frustrated hisses and huffs as the machine fought them on starting up, but they managed to get it done, the screen nearly collapsing onto John’s head only once.

Without him noticing, showtime crept in around them, the sky growing dark as the scent of popcorn wafted up from downstairs, and, by the time Sherlock was dropping the DVD into the projector hookup, about forty people had spread out amid the beanbag chairs, chatting and laughing amongst themselves as they sipped drinks and munched on popcorn and Cadbury. “What movie is it, anyway?” John asked as they moved to the refreshments table, Sherlock wordlessly pouring a cherry coke in addition to his Sprite while John grabbed two small bags of popcorn.

“ _Captain America_ ,” Sherlock replied, passing John his drink and taking a bag of popcorn before leading the way to two beanbag chairs at the back, far removed from the rest of the group. “The first one; whatever it’s called.”

“ _The First Avenger_ ,” John supplied as he sat down, snapping up a kernel of popcorn with his tongue.

“Huh,” Sherlock mused, sitting his drink beside him as he leaned back against the beanbag, looking somewhat absurd as his thin frame sank into the lurid green fabric. “I almost had it right.”

John laughed, shaking his head at Sherlock’s smug smirk before looking back to the screen as the opening, snow-swept scene began to play. “Have you seen it before?” he asked, wriggling back into his own beanbag, and Sherlock nodded. “I like the second one better,” John remarked, leaning toward the man on the pretense of not wanting to talk too loudly. “ _The Winter Soldier_.”

“They had a bigger budget,” Sherlock replied, shrugging a shoulder, “and a lot more to work with, it not being the forties and all. But, Chris Evans is in both of them, so-”

John choked on his soda, coughing violently as Sherlock froze beside him, eyes wide and blinking as his hand stalled halfway through delivering a piece of popcorn to his lips. “I’m sorry, what was that?” he teased, barely restraining his laughter as he looked inquiringly at the man, and Sherlock closed his mouth, eyes flitting between John and the screen.

“I- Nothing,” he muttered, and John slapped a hand to his mouth, trying not to make too much of a scene as he shook with laughter. “I was just saying he’s a very talented actor.”

“Definitely,” John squeaked, breath still trembling with suppressed mirth. “That shirtless scene is Oscar-worthy.”

Sherlock snorted into his Sprite, wiping his mouth with his hand before turning to John, shaking his head as he clearly attempted to glare, but his lips were curled at the corners, anger rapidly fading as John simply beamed. “Idiot,” he muttered, turning back to the screen, the picture revealing the dark hue of his cheeks, and John chuckled, smugly tossing a kernel of popcorn up in the air to catch in his mouth.

He got silent-treated for approximately three minutes before Sherlock commented on the CGI of Skinny Steve, and then they were off, bickering good-naturedly about everything from the plausibility of hover-cars to the significance of Bucky’s lingering hand. By the time the shirtless scene came around, they’d drifted quite close together, a pleasant side effect of intense whispering and sneaky centimeter shifting—at least on John’s part—which meant that Sherlock could feel it when John started twitching with a censored laugh, and hit him hard in the arm with a bony elbow, causing John to splutter out a snort.

As innocently as he could, John turned to the man, placing a hand over his injury with a look of grave offense, but Sherlock only shook his head, and he quickly gave it up, chuckling as he leaned back into his beanbag once more.

John had watched movies with people he fancied before—because this still wasn’t a date, no matter what Irene said—and would’ve thought that those numerous experiences that were strong contenders for most awkward moment of his life would have prepared him for this, but, as it turned out, movie night with Sherlock took the cake, took the whole fucking bakery, and John sincerely hoped that the brush of contact between their arms wasn’t enough for Sherlock to feel the pounding beat of his heart. He just didn’t know what to _do_! Normally, he was good at reading moments like this—damn near exceptional, in fact—but something about Sherlock had him questioning everything, second-guessing his every thought and impulse.

Should he move closer? Pull the gotta-stretch-whoops-now-my-arm’s-around-you bit? Hold his hand? Stop being such a coward and grow the fuck up?

He was so caught up fighting between various options and absolute terror at the prospect of trying any of them, it startled him when Sherlock shifted beside him, his head snapping toward the dancer just in time to see the tail end of his shiver. Without a thought—thankfully, considering anything he’d had to think about probably would’ve taken at least another ten minutes to commit to—he sat up, handily stripping off his jacket and passing it to the boy. “Here,” he said, dropping it in Sherlock’s lap when the man opened his mouth to protest, and Sherlock’s hands instinctively caught it, expression unfathomable as his pale fingers shifted slowly against the blue fabric.

Eventually, he looked up, smiling gently beneath bright grey eyes, and twisted the jacket over his shoulders, leaning forward to let the back unfurl, revealing John’s surname pressed against his spine. “Thanks,” he mumbled, wriggling his arms into the sleeves, which were simultaneously comically wide and at least three inches too short. He didn’t seem to mind, though, settling back down into the beanbag to bring his head level with John’s shoulder, and John didn’t dare do anything but nod in reply, no idea what his voice would come out like at the moment.

He was equally silent when, a few seconds later, he felt a faint pressure on his shoulder, and held his breath, the movie blurring in front of him as Sherlock slowly rested his head against the grey wool of his jumper, setting a New Year’s Eve fireworks display loose in his torso. A voice warbled up to his ear, unintelligible through the haze, and he quickly swallowed, clearing his mind as he tilted his head down toward Sherlock’s. “Hmm?” he hummed, and Sherlock shook against him with a soft chuckle.

“Your cologne,” he must have repeated, and John’s eyes blew wide, his hands going numb with terror. “It’s John Varvatos, isn’t it? Artisan?”

“Er, yeah,” John stammered, swallowing hard against the nausea rolling up his throat. “My-My sister- Sorry, I-”

“No,” Sherlock interjected softly, shaking his head against John’s arm, “don’t be sorry.”

John blinked out at the movie a moment, a crease forming between his brows as he double-checked with his brain that he’d heard that correctly, and then a broad grin bloomed across his face, and he quickly bit his lip to stifle it. “Okay,” he mumbled, and Sherlock huffed a faint laugh, leaning more heavily against him. They were quiet for a time, Sherlock shifting against him with every rise and fall of his chest, and then John frowned, tipping his head down as a thought occurred to him. “How did you know what it was?” he asked, and Sherlock shrugged, as if having expected the query.

“Last year, there was this case—an apparent accidental house fire that had almost killed the owner,” he began, body shuffling closer, his arm now pressed against the length of John’s. “They were fairly certain it was arson, but they couldn’t identify an accelerant. Turns out the wife had used a bottle of her husband’s cologne, spread it all over the carpet beneath his bed while he was sleeping off the overdose of cough medicine she’d given him, and then set up a candle downstairs to catch on the curtains just below their bedroom.”

John’s eyes widened down at the mop of dark curls, staring down the bridge of Sherlock’s nose to his moving lips, but, even from that awkward angle, John could tell he was unconcerned, this sort of thing clearly nothing more alarming than fetching the morning paper for Sherlock Holmes.

“Of course, cologne is a terrible accelerant, and the man woke up before the fire or smoke inhalation got to him, but- Well, I suppose it made me curious,” he continued, shrugging against John’s arm, his voice growing quiet, clearly wary of John’s response. “I wanted to know if there _was_ a cologne—you know, in case someone tried that method again—that could be used as a viable accelerant. I pretty well cleaned out Selfridges,” he added, and John laughed, trying to move his arm as little as possible.

“And?” he asked, and Sherlock shifted against him, tilting his face up just enough for John to see his confused frown. “How flammable am I?”

Sherlock laughed, his body curling in tighter to John’s side as his eyes moved back to the near-forgotten screen. “Negligibly,” he replied, “but I’d avoid Burberry.”

“Burberry?”

Sherlock nodded. “Especially the fall and winter collections.”

“Huh,” John mused, frowning thoughtfully up at the screen. “Well, alright then. I’ll keep that in mind if I ever have disposable income and the desire to smell like mothballs.”

Sherlock let out a sharp bark of laughter, rolling forward off John’s arm and clapping a hand to his face, muffling his snorts as he bent double over his lap.

“How ungrateful,” came a hiss from behind them, John twisting around in alarm while Sherlock once again seemed to have gotten a sneak peek at the script, winding down his laughter before calmly turning around. Irene shook her head between them in chiding, the curl of her mouth faintly visible in the shifting light of the movie. “I give you all this glorious eye candy,” she mocked, waving a hand at the screen, “and you’re not even _watching_?”

Sherlock shrugged, twisting to face the woman, his knee pressing against John’s thigh. “Once you’ve seen one genetically modified super soldier, you’ve seen ‘em all,” he retorted, and John ducked his head with a snort.

Irene rolled her eyes, her gaze scanning between them. “I knew you two were gonna be trouble,” she muttered, but quickly continued before John could question her meaning. “We’re running low on popcorn,” she said, pointing to the table, which, indeed, only had four bags left on it. “There’s still quite a bit of the movie left, and most people are getting near that time to go looking for seconds.”

“You want me to go make more popcorn,” Sherlock summated, and Irene beamed, giving him a single sharp nod.

“Yes, please!”

“Alright, alright,” Sherlock muttered, rising to his feet, John hesitating a moment before quickly following. “Don’t go getting all polite. I’ll need to have you evaluated for some late-onset mental condition.”

Irene rolled her eyes, flicking a dismissive wave as she started back toward her seat. “Don’t dawdle,” she crooned, winking lecherously.

John shook his head at her retreat, comfortable enough in the situation now to not be embarrassed by every little insinuation. He might even be prepared to call it a date; after all, Sherlock _had_ put his head on his shoulder, _and_ liked his cologne—dammit, he’d have to get Harry something nice for her birthday now. Really, he should call it a first date just so it could take over as best-by-a-mile, hopefully yanking all the other humiliating memories straight out of his limbic system.

“Come on,” Sherlock grumbled, rolling his eyes as he started toward the door. “Before she pulls out the whip.”

“She has a whip?” John joked, but Sherlock froze on the third step down, his face turning thoughtful as he stared at the concrete wall.

“You know, I was just being sardonic,” he muttered, looking back up at John, “but, now that I’m thinking about it…I don’t think I can entirely rule out the possibility.”

John half laughed, half wept in mournful disgust, and Sherlock cringed, rattling his head as they continued down the stairs, a pact to never speak of that again formed silently between them.

The LGBT Society headquarters was near the back of the student center, directly opposite Student Psychological Services and with a back wall made almost entirely of windows. It was too dark to see the view, but, trying to mentally backtrack the turns they’d taken to get here, John suspected it looked out on the courtyard between the student center and the administration building, which wasn’t the worst possible view, he supposed. They didn’t linger in the main room long, though, Sherlock immediately leading through a door behind one of the desks and into what appeared to be a small break room, a microwave and coffeemaker sitting on a low table beside a fridge. There were shelves set up beside the appliances, littered with a haphazard arrangement of coffee, crisps, and, more attuned to their purposes, boxes of popcorn, and Sherlock crossed to them, pulling out a handful of popcorn sachets as well as a stack of the small bags John had seen on the table upstairs.

He sat both down on the spare section of table the coffeemaker and microwave left free, and then began tearing free the plastic from the popcorn, John wordlessly coming up beside him to start opening bags.

“How are we gonna carry them back up?” he asked, and Sherlock leaned down to the bottom shelf, wiggling out an empty office paper box and placing it on the floor beside him. John nodded, turning back to his task as he crinkled open the small paper bags and placed them beside the coffeemaker. “How many ya think we’ll need?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Twenty or so,” he said, placing the first popcorn sachet into the microwave and starting it up, and John nodded, continuing to open bags.

The microwaved whirred on in the silence, the steady sound somehow seeming to amplify the tension between them, and John licked his lips, swallowing hard as he struggled for conversation.

“So,” Sherlock said, falling on the sword for him, “how was the early shift?”

John groaned, and the man laughed, turning around to lean the small of his back against the table’s edge. “Exhausting,” John replied, shaking his head down at the thirteenth bag he was opening. “I’ll fall asleep tonight and wake up on Monday,” he added, smiling as Sherlock chuckled. “What about you?” he asked, and Sherlock frowned, tilting his head. “You said you had to get up early for something too.”

Sherlock blinked, panic flashing across his eyes so quickly, John wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t imagined it, but then the microwave beeped, and Sherlock turned away, ducking his head as he opened the door. “Oh, it was nothing,” he muttered as he pulled open the bag, holding it out so the rush of steam rose up between them. “Just an experiment I’m doing in one of the labs. And I didn’t have to get up as early as you did,” he added with a smile, which John returned, but there was something not quite right about it, a nipping suspicion at the back of his mind that doubted Sherlock’s sincerity.

“Lucky you,” he replied, carefully keeping his eyes averted as he held out the first bag, Sherlock shaking a healthy helping of popcorn inside before John rolled it closed and moved on to the next, dropping the finished bags into the box one by one. “What’s your experiment about?” he asked—part curiosity, part fishing—but Sherlock wrinkled his nose with a distaste that seemed genuine enough.

“Nothing interesting,” he replied, loading another bag of popcorn into the microwave. “Just pH balances, testing different variables and such. We didn’t get to pick our own; we just got put into groups and given topics.”

“Groups?” John echoed, grimacing as Sherlock nodded miserably. “How’s that working out?”

Sherlock sniffed, and John chuckled, the man shooting a half-hearted glare at his lack of sympathy. “It could be worse,” Sherlock muttered, shrugging a shoulder. “They’re all fairly inept, but at least they’re content to let me do all the work,” he explained, and John laughed. “Nothing worse than woefully unqualified people insisting on doing their ‘fair share’.”

“Isn’t that a lot of work for you, though?” John asked, but Sherlock shook his head.

“Not really. The assignment isn’t difficult, just time-consuming,” he replied, and John nodded, folding his arms as he watched the popcorn slowly expand as it rotated inside the machine. “It’s a lot of waiting,” Sherlock continued, his eyes focused on where his fingers were picking at his nails when John turned to him, “so I usually bring something else to do. Like, um, this morning, for instance, I-” He paused, cracking a couple of his knuckles before looking up at John in a rush. “You can’t laugh,” he blurted, and John blinked, momentarily taken aback before lifting a curious brow. Sherlock tilted his head at him, frowning as he scanned over John’s face. “This-This is the part where you say you’re not gonna laugh,” he muttered, but John shook his head.

“I make no promises,” he replied, Sherlock giving him a stony look before sighing in resigned exasperation.

“I- Considering it was probable that I would be in attendance at some future rugby match,” he began, John’s lips trembling with quelled mirth as Sherlock’s cheeked darkened, grey eyes pointedly averted as his hands rolled and flitted through the air in jagged gesticulations, “it seemed sagacious to glean a better understanding of the mechanics of the game. So, I-I was researching it a bit, and I don’t- There’s one thing I don’t quite understand.” He turned as the microwave chimed behind him, allowing John a moment to smirk at the pink back of his neck. “How does offside work?” he asked, popping open the steaming bag, and John chuckled, shaking his head as he held out one of the small bags to be filled.

“To be honest, I don’t think anyone _completely_ understands it,” he began, and Sherlock smiled up through his lashes, looking slightly reassured, “but, basically, it’s- Okay, here.” He pushed at the popcorn bag in Sherlock’s hand, tilting it up to halt the flow of kernels, and then placed the small bag he was holding beside the microwave, pulling out two pieces of popcorn and sitting them down on a clear section of table. “Say this player has the ball,” he began, pointing at one of the kernels, and Sherlock, though quirking a brow, nodded. “If they’re running up the pitch”—he slowly slid the popcorn back across the table—“none of their teammates are allowed to be in front of them. So, if this player,” he continued, pressing a finger to the second kernel and pushing it out ahead, “moves in front of him, he’s in an offside position.”

“And then the opposing team gets a penalty?” Sherlock surmised, and John wobbled his head side-to-side with indecision.

“Probably, but not because of that. Technically, there’s nothing wrong with _being_ offside, you just can’t obtain any _advantage_ from being offside,” he attempted to clarify, but Sherlock only blinked at him, John clearly having failed. “Like, this person”—he pointed at the second kernel once more—“can’t really do anything. They can’t be passed the ball—forward passes are always illegal—can’t even move toward the ball, or toward any other players out in front of it, teammate or otherwise. So, while you won’t get a penalty for simply being offside, just about anything you do up there will be illegal, so people tend to avoid it altogether.” He looked up, scanning over the side of Sherlock’s face. “Make sense?” he asked, and the man nodded, though continuing to frown down at the demonstration.

“Yes. Seems unnecessarily complicated, but…” He trailed off with a shrug, and John laughed, picking up the half-filled bag as they returned to their task.

“Yeah, I don’t get it either, and I’ve been playing for nearly a decade.”

“Really?” Sherlock questioned, and John nodded, smiling up at the man’s widened eyes.

“Started the first year of secondary school,” he explained, dropping the finished bags into the box while Sherlock put another portion of popcorn in the microwave. “Mum moved into London the summer before so we could go to a better school. She wanted me and Harry to try out everything, but rugby’s the only thing that stuck for me. Although, I did play clarinet for a few years,” he recalled, shrugging when Sherlock snapped his face up. “Jazz band,” he added, and Sherlock laughed, shaking his head down at the popcorn as it started to rattle.

“That…is unexpected,” he muttered, and John smiled, crossing his ankles as he leaned back against the table.

“Why?” he quipped, tilting his head. “I don’t seem the woodwind type?”

Sherlock choked on a laugh, coughing into his fist as John chuckled at his distress. “Honestly,” he chuckled, shaking his head, “no, not really. I would’ve guessed…generic percussionist with no sense of rhythm.”

“Oi!” John trumpeted, but Sherlock only shrugged, lifting his palms aside his shoulders.

“You asked,” he chirped, and John glared, shaking his head as Sherlock continued to smirk.

“I did have rhythm,” he muttered bitterly, and Sherlock grinned a moment before shifting to a sage nod.

“Obviously,” he said, far too serious to be sincere. “I mean…jazz band,” he remarked, waving a hand at John before chuckling at his sneer.

“Oh, shut up, we were good,” he snapped as Sherlock continued to laugh. “You know, for a group of thirteen-year-olds.”

“I’m sure you were,” Sherlock replied, slightly more genuine now, but it was followed by a worrisome smirk. “Did you have special uniforms?” he mocked, grinning as John rolled his eyes. “Special jazz band uniforms?”

“Remind me to never tell you anything ever again.”

“So you _did_ have uniforms.”

“No,” John clipped, rattling his head, but Sherlock lifted a skeptical brow. John dropped his eyes, scratching lightly at the side of his neck. “We-We just wore nice stuff,” he muttered, shrugging a shoulder. “Black trousers and shoes. White button-downs. Bowties.”

“Bowties!?”

“It was required!” John defended, but Sherlock didn’t appear to be listening, planting a palm back on the table for support as he curled forward with laughter, and John bit hard at the inside of his cheek to fight to keep glaring.

“Bowties!” Sherlock wheezed, shaking his head down at the floor. “Oh my god, you had to wear jazz band bowties!”

“Oh, please,” John scoffed. “Like you don’t have embarrassing pictures of some stupid play or something you-”

“There are _pictures_!?” Sherlock interjected, eyes wide with delight, and John froze, blinking at him a moment in horror before clapping his jaw shut. Sherlock cackled, leaning forward again as John blushed scarlet. “That’s fantastic,” he sighed amusedly, shaking his head as he beamed back up at John. “Were they novelty bowties? With little music notes?”

John narrowed his eyes at the man’s smug smirk. “No,” he said flatly, and Sherlock chuckled, turning back around to watch as the last seconds ticked down on the popcorn.

“I play the violin,” he offered as they started bagging the new batch, smiling when John frowned up at him. “Have since I was a kid. I mean, I was never good enough for _jazz band_ or anything, but-”

John plucked out a few pieces of popcorn with his fingertips, flicking them at the man’s face while Sherlock laughed, the bag rattling in his hand as his body shook with glee.

Two bags of popcorn later, they were done, John somehow getting stuck with carrying the box back up the stairs, but it wasn’t heavy, and they were apparently just in time, Irene flitting over to help them unload while informing them she’d had three people come up and ask if there was more already. The two of them didn’t want any more, however, and simply settled back down on the beanbag chairs, talking idly while the remainder of the movie rolled on unheeded in front of them.

It was strange how easily John had fallen into being comfortable with Sherlock, but strange in a way one didn’t notice right away, the sort of strange that only became clear halfway through a story about how your mother got you a bike at 13 that was the same color and brand as the one you’d wanted when you were nine and she couldn’t afford it, something John belatedly realized he’d never told anyone before. He couldn’t quite pin down what it was about Sherlock that made talking to him so easy, that made John confident he wouldn’t judge, but he was still sure of it somehow, and Sherlock seemed at least just as comfortable, describing his own strained relationship with his brother when John mentioned something about him and Harry drifting apart. It was also odd how second nature the physical contact had become, their legs and arms frequently brushing together as they talked, the touches no longer inspiring spine-shivers and rapid heartbeats, but John didn’t think that was a bad thing.

John had plenty of experience with first dates, and only slightly less experience with second dates, the butterflies and fleeting grazes of fingertips as both parties mumbled through ‘I had a great time’s and ‘I’ll call you’s something he was almost nauseatingly familiar with, and, though those things certainly had a place, it was nice to move beyond them for once, to get past the small talk and white lies that everyone seemed to start out with. John didn’t want to talk about favorite subjects in secondary school or interesting things they did over the summer like some sort of first-day-of-class icebreaker; he wanted to talk about life on other planets, about animals having feelings, about where you saw yourself after you died, not in ten years. John liked dating as a way to pass the time, to meet new people and go out and have fun, but had he ever made a meaningful connection over a candlelit dinner at some wannabe Italian place while rolling through the traditional first date script? No, he hadn’t—or, at least, he hadn’t for a very long time—but here was Sherlock talking about how he hated green bean casserole because their neighbor brought one over every Sunday for months after his mother died, and he’d gotten so sick of it, even the smell made him nauseous now, and, somehow, it was the funniest story John had ever heard, his lungs burning for lack of breath as Sherlock got to the end of an extraordinarily descriptive tirade about just how horrible reheated casserole is.

“Honestly, as if we weren’t suffering enough,” he cursed, and maybe it should’ve been sad, but John was the last person with any right to fault someone for using humor as a shield, “she has to add insult to injury by force-feeding us mushroom-flavored glue!”

“Ew,” John grimaced, rattling his head. “I think I’m starting to appreciate the fact that my mother can’t cook.”

“No?” Sherlock inquired, and John shrugged.

“Well, she can cook some things—simple stuff, like pancakes and whatnot—but, mostly, we ate a lot of Pot Noodle. And never green bean casserole,” he added, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“I’m tempted to say you should try it,” he remarked, looking up to the final few moments of the movie that had somehow snuck up on them, “if only to add company to my misery.”

“Nice,” John muttered, and Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head before turning to John with a smile.

“I’m never nice,” he said, something shifting suddenly serious in his eyes in a way John couldn’t quite comprehend, but Sherlock looked quickly away after that, rising to standing along with the other students roused from their seats by the credits. “Well,” he sighed, looking out over the crowd slowly shifting toward the door, “guess we’d better start cleaning up. I mean-” He broke off, turning with wide, urgent eyes. “You don’t have to,” he blurted, shaking his head. “Clean up, I mean. You can go, I-I didn’t mean-”

John shook his head as Sherlock trailed away, opening his mouth to reassure him it was fine just as Irene appeared between them, slinging her arms around their shoulders.

“Both of you can go,” she said, smiling up at their twin frowns. “I roped enough people into helping me clean up already, and you were here for set up.”

“But-” Sherlock started, but the woman shook her head, cutting him off.

“Don’t worry about it,” she assured, clapping the tall man on the shoulder, a conversation seeming to take place between their sharp eyes before she looked away, pulling her arms back to her sides. “You two crazy kids go and have some fun,” she teased, smiling good-naturedly as she bobbed her head at the exit, and John chuckled while Sherlock simply looked perplexed.

“It’s 11 o’clock,” he muttered, but Irene only flicked her hand in unconcerned dismissal, turning away to leave them watching her walk away.

Sherlock shook his head at her back, and John smiled up at him a moment before dropping his eyes, shuffling his trainers on the concrete as he fidgeted with the house keys in his pocket. “So,” he murmured, Sherlock looking back at him as they began slowly ambling toward the stairs, “you headed home?”

Sherlock nodded, his hands lifting as if to slide into the pockets of his jeans, but he redirected at the last moment, slipping them into John’s rugby jacket instead. “Yeah,” he replied, and John ducked his head as they started down the steps, hiding his smirk. “I have…a meeting tomorrow morning,” he muttered, his tone changing halfway through, and John struggled to keep the skepticism off his face as the man cleared his throat. “It’s pretty early.”

“Oh,” John remarked, hopefully idly. “More chemistry stuff?”

“Er, no, not-not specifically, anyway,” Sherlock muttered, and, though it was clear he was uncomfortable, there was nothing in there John could definitively call a lie. “Just general school stuff. I have to meet with one of my teachers,” he concluded, more confident now, and John frowned at the ground a moment before nodding, sure that was true on some level.

He was also sure he was going to have to work a lot harder to get Sherlock to talk about practicing ballet, the man apparently incredibly adverse to being open about it for some reason John couldn’t fathom, but he let it go for now, following Sherlock through the main door and onto the pavement. “Well,” he said, smiling awkwardly as they dithered outside the doors, “I’d offer you a ride, but I took the tube.”

Sherlock smiled, nodding down at the pavement beneath his shifting feet. “Yeah, I- Me too,” he replied, pointing back over his shoulder in the opposite direction of the station John was headed to.

They lingered a few moments longer, eyes meeting in fleeting glances before darting apart, and then Sherlock blinked, a look of surprise crossing his face as his eyes dropped to John’s rugby jacket, his hands slipping out of the pockets as he made to take it off, and that more than anything shoved John into speech.

“You know,” he blurted, and Sherlock stilled, frowning up at him. John closed his mouth, needing to swallow quickly before he could continue. “If-If you want, you could- I could drive you from my place,” he poorly explained, and Sherlock, predictably, quirked a brow. “That is, we could take the tube to my car, and then I could give you a ride from there.” He waited, twisting his fingers together in front of him as Sherlock tilted his head, a faint smile twitching at his lips.

“Seems a bit out of your way,” he remarked, and John smiled, shrugging a shoulder.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On where I want to go,” he concluded, grinning brightly, and Sherlock blinked at him a moment before dropping his face, a smile curling his mouth as his cheeks turned red.

“Right,” he croaked, clearing his throat before looking up at John, “well, in that case, er… Okay.” He shrugged, half his mouth lifting in a shy smile. “I mean, if you’re sure it’s not-”

“It’s not,” John affirmed, shaking his head as he turned toward the underground, Sherlock’s chuckle coming up behind him as the man walked to his side.

It wasn’t a long way to John’s flat, the two of them only needing to switch lines once, but they made good use of the time nonetheless, talking quietly amongst themselves in the near-deserted carriages, John biting hard at his lip to keep from laughing as Sherlock deduced the handful of other passengers along their route. John wasn’t sure how much of it was true—the elderly man falling asleep against the plastic partition hardly seeming the type to frequent a swingers’ club—but it hardly mattered so long as Sherlock kept sitting close to him, their arms pressing together whenever he leaned to murmur absurdities into John’s ear.

Eventually, however, with his left arm pinned between them, his shoulder started to twinge, the muscle in dire need of a stretch, and he reluctantly shifted away, swinging his arm back between them to stretch out across the vents behind Sherlock’s seat. “Sorry,” he muttered, lifting his right hand across his body for a moment to massage the stiff joint. “Guess I should’ve left that ice on a bit longer.”

Sherlock’s head was turned away at first, seeming to be looking at John’s hand where it rested behind him, and then twisted to face him, one eyebrow raised. “Mhmm,” he hummed skeptically, and John popped his lips apart in only mild offense, the lie not exactly beneath him, even though it happened to be true right now.

“I’m serious,” he argued, and Sherlock flicked his brows, shrugging lightly as he looked out across the carriage, the passing lights of the tunnel reflecting in rapid stripes across his eyes.

“Okay,” he said, clearly still unconvinced, but John just shook his head, dropping the matter as he further hurt his case by creeping his arm up to rest against Sherlock’s back. Sherlock ducked his face, shaking his head down at his lap as he grinned, and then lifted his chin, eyes fixed forward as he subtly leant into the touch, shuffling closer to John across the prickly fabric seats.

The underground station was deserted as they rose up from the heat of the tunnels to the street, only slightly more people milling about up there, and they quickly reached John’s building, their footsteps echoing in the underground car park below the structure as they made their way to the vehicle. Once again, John had to apologize, muttering embarrassedly as he tossed textbooks into the backseat, but Sherlock only smiled, shaking his head as he slipped past John holding the door.

“I could’ve moved them,” he said, dropping into the seat. “Or read them. Never a bad time to brush up on organic chemistry.”

John laughed, cutting it off quickly as the sound bounced back at him from the concrete walls of the parking garage. “And here I thought my sparkling wit would be enough to keep you occupied,” he teased, and Sherlock shrugged with a noncommittal blip of a sound.

“I don’t know, it _is_ a ten-minute drive,” he mocked, laughing as John scoffed and slammed the door, and he was still chuckling when John slipped into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition and twisting on the headlamps. “You really don’t have to do this, you know,” Sherlock said, smiling shyly up at him just before John shifted into reverse. “I mean, you’re already home, and it’s a straight shot on the tube from here to Baker Street.”

“Well, that may be,” John replied, turning over his shoulder as he backed out, “but it doesn’t change the fact that I _want_ to drive you.”

Sherlock hissed a small laugh, his fingers twisting at the cuff of John’s jacket as he dropped his eyes to his lap. “Why?” he murmured after a moment, peering up sideways at John through his lashes. “I mean, it’s still fairly early; it’s not as if I’m liable to be mugged.”

“I’m not worried about you being mugged,” John immediately answered, and then shook his head, lifting a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose as Sherlock quirked a brow. “I mean, I’m not _not_ worried about you being mugged, but that’s not- That wasn’t- I just…like driving you,” he muttered, wincing with awkwardness as soon as the words passed his lips.

Sherlock smiled, eyes twinkling across at him as they left the parking garage and started down the street. “You like driving me?” he parroted, chuckling back at John’s sneer.

“You know what I mean,” John snapped, and the man grinned, turning away to watch the passing lampposts. “You’re not…entirely unpleasant to be around,” he added, and Sherlock smiled out the window, the expression reflected on the glass when John snuck a brief glance out of the corner of his eye.

“Well,” Sherlock said, rolling his head back to John with a soft smile, “you’re not completely insufferable yourself.”

“Cheers,” John deadpanned, and Sherlock laughed, once again turning his head to peer out the passenger window, the corner of his temple resting against the glass.

It wasn’t too long of a drive to Baker Street, but it was long enough for John to work himself up into heart palpitations, his palms sweating where they shifted against the steering wheel. Normally—as in, with every other person he had ever had an interest in—it would be no trouble for him to reach across the gearshift and take his date’s hand from where it rested on their knee, wouldn’t cause his mouth to dry out thinking about whether or not to go for a kiss with the goodnights, wouldn’t twist his stomach into knots wondering if and how and when he should bring up seeing one another again, but, alas, it seemed Sherlock Holmes was destined to smash all of John’s preconceived notions to pieces, and, as they pulled up to 221B, he frantically tried to pull some of them back together.

“Well,” he croaked, clearing his throat as he looked past Sherlock to the door of the flat, “here we are.”

Sherlock chuckled softly, and John vainly hoped it wasn’t because he could see his face changing colors. “Here we are,” he repeated, and then simply watched John, looking thoroughly unbothered and not at all terrified, something John and his racing heart took personal offense to.

John coughed again, swallowing down at the still speedometer. “This was fun,” he blurted, flipping a hand toward the window, as if to gesture to the evening itself. “The-The movie and everything.”

Sherlock smiled, dropping his eyes to his lap as he nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed, blinking up to John through his lashes, “it was.”

John was sure his heartbeat must be visible by now, tremors rattling his entire body with every push and pull of blood, but he managed to smile, fingers tapping silently against the base of the steering wheel. “Maybe, er- Maybe we can do it again sometime.” There, he’d done it, he’d crossed the bridge and not fallen in and drowned, and, to his exultant surprise, Sherlock nodded.

“Yeah,” he replied, smiling blithely. “Sure. I think Irene has next month’s planned already, but I’m not sure of the date.” He looked away a moment, frowning thoughtfully down at his knees just long enough for John to get the alarm off his face. “I can let you know, though,” he offered, lifting his chin again, and John smiled, swallowing down what he’d _meant_ to say.

“Okay,” he answered, and Sherlock smiled, John’s heart sinking as the man turned to reach for the door handle.

“I’ll, um- Thanks for the ride,” he said, leaning back inside the car as he stood on the pavement, and John simply smiled, trying to ignore his brain screeching at him to clarify his fucking terms.

“No problem,” was all he said, however, and, after a moment and a smile, Sherlock closed the door between them, his shoulders twitching against the cold as he started toward his flat.

John gripped hard to the steering wheel, his teeth pressing into his lip as he watched the man get farther away, every mute footfall seeming to shake the silent air. It wasn’t necessarily a bad ending, Sherlock agreeing to let him know about the next movie event, but waiting weeks was not what John had had in mind, not the ending he’d wanted, and he was better than this, goddammit, so, with a deep breath and a swirling stomach, he threw open the door, yanking the keys free as he went.

“Sherlock!” he called, slamming the door shut as he rushed around the front of the car, slowing to a slightly less desperate speed as the man turned from unlocking the door, his brow furrowed. “I-” John started as he approached, and then realized he had no idea how to finish it, but his mouth seemed to be running independently for the moment. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he heard himself blurt as he moved up the steps to stand across from the man, who was blinking at him, clearly taken aback.

Sherlock scanned over his face, the puzzled creases in his forehead deepening. “Tomorrow?” he echoed, eyes widening in surprise as John nodded.

“After your…meeting,” he added, his stomach twisting in discomfort at the small lie, but he got over it quick enough as Sherlock dropped his eyes, fidgeting with the keys between his fingers.

“I’m- Nothing,” he muttered, shaking his head as his gaze found John’s again. “I-I’m not doing anything.”

John smiled, his confidence growing exponentially with the steady darkening of Sherlock’s cheeks. “Well, you are now,” he replied, and Sherlock blinked, a small laugh startled from his lips. “What time is your meeting over?” John asked, the word coming easier now, especially when Sherlock ducked a smile to the ground, his foot shuffling faintly against the concrete.

“Around 2,” he answered, “but I’ll probably have to stop by the lab for a while after that.”

“Oh,” John murmured, momentarily disappointed, and then just as quickly beamed. “I could come with you,” he offered, and Sherlock fumbled with his keys, the metal clinking together as his fingers nearly lost their grip. “To the lab. I promise not to touch anything,” he added, throwing all his charm behind a smile as he lifted a hand over his heart, and Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head amusedly.

“It would be terribly boring,” he warned, but John only scoffed, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he shrugged.

“I’ll make do. And, besides,” he replied, tipping his head with a smirk, “I’m sure the company will make up for it.”

Sherlock looked genuinely confused for a moment, as if he thought John might be looking forward to an engaging conversation with the microscopes, and then flushed through a whole spectrum of reds, the entire reaction sweeping all the competition away for most adorable thing John had ever seen, and his previous girlfriend had had a fondness for YouTube cat videos. “I-I-” he started to stammer, but their attention was drawn away by a noise inside the flat, slaps of what sounded to be slippers along with a muffled voice.

“Sherlock?” a woman could be heard calling, and then the door creeped open a sliver, a single beady brown eye scanning over them before the rest of the visitor was revealed. “I thought that was you,” the woman said, smiling brightly as she adjusted the tie on her robe—a shiny swath of lavender over what looked to be a floral nightie. “Who else would be loitering on my stoop in the middle of the night?” she chuckled, and the twinge of familiarity John had been trying to place suddenly smacked him hard across the face. “Except you, of course,” the owner of the dance studio added, turning her grin on John as she extended a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Mrs. Hudson.”

John blinked, his manners putting his arm on autopilot as he shook Mrs. Hudson’s hand. “John,” he muttered, clearing his throat as he hitched up a smile, beating back his surprise. “Watson,” he added, and Mrs. Hudson, landlady and ballet instructor extraordinaire, chuckled, her eyes turning bright.

“Yes, I can see that,” she mused, her tone mischievous, and then bobbed her head down to the rugby jacket Sherlock was still wearing, John’s surname clearly stitched in swirling white font across the right breast.

If there had been a competition for who could turn fire engine red the fastest, it would have been too close to call, both John and Sherlock pointedly avoiding one another’s eyes as the temperature seemed to spike around them, but Mrs. Hudson seemed quite proud of herself, grinning between them before addressing John once more.

“Well, no sense standing out here in the cold,” she said, stepping backward toward the interior of the flat. “Why don’t you come inside? I’ll fix us up some tea.”

“Thank you- Er…”

“Mrs. Hudson,” the woman requested with a smile, and John nodded gratefully back.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he confirmed, and then shook his head. “But I really should get home while I can still keep my eyes open.”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled, nodding in understanding. “Long day, I take it?”

“Yeah,” John confirmed, lifting his brows with a deep nod. “I opened at work this morning.”

“Oh?” the woman inquired, tilting her head as she stepped to the threshold once again. “Where do you work?”

“At a coffee shop downtown,” John replied, carefully avoiding looking at Sherlock as he continued, not wanting to give anything away. “Corner of Pierce and James.”

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes lit with recognition, her face stretching in surprise. “I know that place! It’s right across from-”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock interjected, foiling John’s plan, “perhaps we can postpone this conversation for a more convenient time?”

Mrs. Hudson huffed, shooting the young man a sharp frown, but her expression was soft when she turned to John once more. “A raincheck, then,” she said, and John smiled, giving the woman a nod. “I’ll collect!” she threatened good-naturedly, waggling a finger up at him, and John laughed.

“I don’t doubt it,” he replied, and Mrs. Hudson beamed, giving him a final nod goodnight before starting to close the door.

“Lock up when you come in, Sherlock,” she said through the thinning crack, and then the door clicked shut, the both of them left staring at the flat expanse of black paint.

With Mrs. Hudson gone, the air rapidly grew thick again, but John couldn’t quite be sure how much of that was genuine tension, and how much of it was his own private discomfort.

Why had Sherlock not mentioned Mrs. Hudson was also his dance teacher, not just a family friend and landlady? Why had he cut Mrs. Hudson off before she could reveal the connection to the studio? Clearly, he didn’t want John to know about the ballet, that was hardly difficult to decipher, but _why_? Once again, John’s earlier suspicions rushed to the forefront of his mind, Molly’s words of encouragement not enough to keep the doubt at bay, and he dropped his gaze to his shoes, swallowing against the bitterness climbing in his throat.

“Well, I should-” he began, jerking a thumb back toward his car, not one to push where he knew he wasn’t wanted, but the detective called him back, only adding to John’s confusion.

“Lab 117,” the man said, the syllables rushed, as if he hadn’t trusted himself to get them all out if it wasn’t all at once. “I-I’m using 117 for the project,” he continued, smiling sheepishly down at his shoes, his eyes peering up at John through a veil of dark lashes. “I should be there by 2:30,” he added, the uncertain hope transparent in his folding brow and shifting gaze, and John, though now more confused than ever, found himself unable to hold onto the frustration and smiled, his heart stuttering in his chest as Sherlock nervously returned the gesture.

“2:30,” he repeated with a nod, holding Sherlock smile a moment before turning toward his car, but Sherlock once again beckoned after him.

“Wait!” he cried. “Your jacket.” He pulled open a panel of the rugby jacket, starting to wriggle out of a sleeve, but John stopped him, lifting a hand as he shook his head.

“Keep it,” he said with a nod, smiling at the man’s bemused expression. “I’ll see you tomorrow anyway. Besides,” he added with a smirk, twirling his keys around his finger by the metal ring, “blue suits you.”

Sherlock’s expression went slack as he blinked, the pale yellow light of the nearby streetlamp reflecting off his darkening cheeks, and John grinned back at him, tossing a wink over his shoulder as he moved around his car to the driver door.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” he said, looking over the roof of the car. “Let you know when I’m on my way.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock murmured, and then rattled his head, clearing his throat down at his shoes as John stifled a smile. “I mean, er, okay,” he muttered, nodding sharply. “Sounds, um- Sounds good.”

John beamed. “Alright, then,” he replied, wrenching open the car door, but paused just before dropping into the seat, his smile softening as he cast one last glance at the dancer lingering on the step. “See ya tomorrow,” he said, and Sherlock smiled, his eyes skittering shyly back to his shoes.

“Tomorrow,” he echoed softly, holding John’s gaze as John loitered beside his car, but he couldn’t stand in the street forever, and reluctantly slid behind the wheel, pulling the door shut behind him.

When he turned back, Sherlock was silhouetted in the entryway, the interior lights falling on John’s surname spread across his shoulders before the door was pushed closed, hiding the man from view, and John turned to the street ahead of him, a smile still clinging to his lips as the engine rumbled to life.

Contrary to what he’d learned in psychology, the return trip seemed to take longer than the first, Sherlock’s deep voice and shy smiles missed in the quiet darkness of the car, but at least he didn’t need to explain his absence to Mike, the man already asleep by the time he crept into the flat, toeing his shoes off at the door and heading to his room. He quickly prepared for bed, knackered after his early shift, but, just before burrowing his head into the pillow and closing his eyes, he sent a single text, the day not quite feeling finished without it.

_Goodnight Sherlock_

He hadn’t really expected a reply, his phone already halfway to the nightstand when the screen lit up, but he eagerly pulling it back to his side regardless, swiping the screen unlocked to open the message.

**_Goodnight, John_ **

John smiled, shaking his head fondly as he tapped out a response.

_Had to one-up me with the comma didn’t you?_

The answer took a moment this time, John just beginning to wonder if the man had perhaps fallen asleep when the screen brightened again.

**_Sorry_ **

John frowned, shaking his head as if Sherlock could see the negation.

_No it’s fine. I was only joking._

He sent the text, staring at the conversation a moment before quickly adding another.

_But for the record I do know there’s a comma there_

John bit his lip, awaiting the reply, and then nearly dropped his phone on his face as he fumbled to open it.

**_I’m sure you do_ **

John chuckled, wriggling deeper down into his pillow.

_Are you sassing me, Mr. Holmes?_

**_Sarcasm is quite difficult to infer over text message_ **

_That doesn’t answer my question_

**_No, it doesn’t_ **

John barked a hoarse laugh, trying to stifle it halfway through so as not to wake Mike and need to explain why he was giggling to himself in the dark, but Sherlock’s next message came through before he had to worry about that.

**_Weren’t you going to sleep?_ **

_Why you getting tired of me?_

He had intended it to be a joke, a typical throwaway flirtatious comment, but, the longer he stared at his inbox, tapping at the screen every time it threatened to go dark, he started to wonder if he’d perhaps hit the nail on the head, if Sherlock was drafting a polite letdown text while John tapped his foot anxiously against the duvet, and, when the response finally did come in, he found he needed to take a deep breath before he could open it.

**_Not in the slightest_ **

John blew out a soft sigh of relief, smiling at his own absurdity as he shook his head and yet another message came through.

**_I’m merely reminding you that you’re tired_ **

John rolled onto his side, tugging the duvet over his shoulder with one hand while the other swept across the touchscreen.

_Can’t argue with you there. Guess I should say goodnight then_

**_You already did._ **

_True enough_

John stared at the screen, tapping at the edge of his mobile as he tried to think of something else to say, something that wasn’t too soon or too much, but, once again, Sherlock beat him to it.

**_Goodnight, John_ **

John smiled, his eyes blinking slowly as he typed out his final reply, turning the phone over on his nightstand and rolling over to sleep the moment it had sent.

_Goodnight,,,,,,,,,,,Sherlock_

*********

“Jupiter’s the one with the spot, right?”

John blinked, frowning down at the sink full of soapy water and nearly clean mugs. “What?” he asked, looking up to where Sherlock was hanging over the edge of the counter in front of him, crossword puzzle in hand and irate expression on his face.

He tapped at one of the clues with the rubber of his pencil, reciting it aloud to spare John the trouble of squinting at the miniscule magazine print. “’Great Dark Spot locale’,” he stated, turning the page back to glower at it. “It’s seven letters, so it fits, but this one is ‘impute’ and this one is ‘fixates’, and I _know_ I have those right, so-”

“Neptune,” John interrupted, nodding down at the periodical, and Sherlock snapped his face up, looking thoroughly perplexed. “Neptune has the dark spot,” John explained, rinsing off the mugs and placing them on the drying rack. “Jupiter’s is red.”

Sherlock blinked, his confusion slowly shifting to frustration as his eyes moved over the puzzle, lips shifting in silent musing. Finally, he set his jaw, lifting his chin to glare at John as if he were somehow personally responsible. “Who would know _that_?” he spat, and John quirked a brow.

“Me,” he replied, smiling as Sherlock scoffed. “Just now. When you asked.”

“Yes, well,” the man grumbled, slowly making his way back to his usual table in the corner, “what about a four-letter word for _prat_?”

“Don’t know that one,” John replied with faux consideration, looking up thoughtfully at the ceiling, “but I can give you an eight-letter word for smartass.” He beamed innocently across the deserted café, prompting Sherlock to sneer, and then chuckled, putting the last of the mugs on the drying rack before toweling off his hands. “I’ve gotta take the rubbish out,” he said, bobbing his head back at the door behind the counter as he wriggled the full plastic bag free of the bin. “You can whip up a macchiato if anyone comes in, right?”

“Depends,” Sherlock replied, lifting his eyes from the resumed crossword. “Do you have fire insurance?”

John laughed, shaking his head as he tied the rubbish bag off. “I’ll be right back,” he said, looking over to catch Sherlock’s nod before hoisting the bag up by the plastic handles and pushing through the swinging door to the back room.

It was late Thursday afternoon, the café right in the middle of the slowest time of John’s shift. It was so slow, in fact, that Molly had run out to get food from down the road, taking sandwich orders from John and Sherlock before darting out the door and into the sunlight of the warm spring day, and no one had come in since, John and Sherlock left alone to bicker about crossword clues across the empty café.

It was the most they’d been able to do since Sunday, when John had visited Sherlock in the lab, bringing Chinese takeaway and far too much excitement, but Sherlock hadn’t seemed to mind, picking away at his lo mein while explaining his experiment between bites. John didn’t understand most of it, but, then again, he hadn’t been the best listener, his mind tending to focus more on the movement of Sherlock’s lips than the words passing over them, but he was only human, after all, and mere mortals could not hope to resist the pull of that perfect cupid’s bow John wanted very much to pull between his teeth. He didn’t though, not then and not since, their legs purposefully knocking and pressing together beneath the laboratory table the closest thing to a stride they’d made all week, and, though he could blame it on their busy schedules meaning the only time they’d had to see one another was Tuesday and Thursday during a portion of John’s shift at the café, that wasn’t really the reason.

Try as he might in their limited interactions and practically constant stream of text messages that had John pretending he was always up until 2am, he could _not_ get Sherlock to so much as hint at taking ballet. The man seemed to have changed his practice hours in order to spend time with John during his shift, making claiming to have spotted him anew out of the question, so John had instead gently pried as to how the man had come to live with Mrs. Hudson, but the detective had changed the subject, muttering something about her being lonely before asking John about a crossword clue. He’d asked what he was doing this weekend, knowing full well he would be occupied with the spring arts celebration, but Sherlock had only said he was busy, citing his chemistry project, but shaking his head when John had offered to come by yet again.

“The whole group is going to be there,” he had said, seeming to look at John’s forehead more than his eyes, “and I doubt you want to bring Chinese for everyone.” He had then smiled, and John had tried to force one in response, but it was hard, knowing he was being lied to.

However, he was also lying, which was both the reason the whole thing bothered him so much in the first place, and the reason he couldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t exactly ask Sherlock why he’d been hiding the ballet from him without admitting how he knew about it in the first place, and, though there were plenty of long-kept secrets he’d already divulged to the man—including the spitball incident he still felt bad about, but how was he supposed to know Fred Barden would get suspended when he let him take the blame?—he wasn’t quite willing to admit to having been lusting through windows for months.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, John was torn on how to proceed. Sherlock wasn’t pushing, and John doubted he ever would, but there was _something_ in their interactions, some underlying tension John knew would have to be addressed, and the dreaded ‘Define the Relationship’ conversation felt like it was around every corner, waiting to pounce every time Sherlock’s name popped up on his mobile screen.

Except…John wasn’t dreading it at all.

He _wanted_ to be in a relationship with Sherlock, officially, properly, with sickening pet names and inside jokes that made everyone else around them mime vomiting at one another when they weren’t looking. He wanted to know what Sherlock’s hair felt like running through his fingers, what section of the paper he read first on lazy Sunday mornings, what his smiled tasted like, what he looked like drifting off to sleep, everything, he wanted everything. But it wasn’t right, wasn’t fair, not so long as they were both keeping secrets, and his deception might be so off-putting, Sherlock would want to abandon the whole thing entirely, if not get a restraining order. Still, he had to tell him first, had to talk things out. But how?

John pushed open the back door of the café, stepping out into the alley behind the shop and yanking open the lid of one of the dumpsters, tossing the rubbish inside as he turned his head away to avoid the stench.

He’d talked to Molly a bit about his dilemma throughout the week, and, together, they’d manage to scrape together both a completely reasonable explanation and a plan, but, now, leaning against the alley wall and blowing a sigh up at the cloudy sky, John’s stomach twisted with indecision.

“Maybe he’s embarrassed,” Molly had suggested, a preposterous supposition John had initially scoffed at, but, the more they had talked about it, the more likely it seemed, and John was now firmly convinced that the only reason Sherlock hadn’t told him about doing ballet, the only reason he was so determinedly lying about it, was because he was somehow ashamed. He probably didn’t tell anybody, his level of secrecy on the subject certainly lending that assumption a fair bit of credence, and, as soon as John admitted to already knowing, it would be fine, and Sherlock would be relieved, and they would all live happily ever after and probably make out for days.

At least, that’s how it always went in John’s head, but it felt a little too real now, this time with Sherlock in the café the last chance he’d have to talk to him in person before the concert, and he knew better than to waste it, Molly’s pointed look as she’d left for sandwiches clearly conveying that she’d sort it out when she got back if he didn’t.

John sighed, kicking at a loose stone beside his shoe as he pulled his hands out of his pockets. “Sherlock,” he practiced for at least the eighth time today, six of those directed to his shampoo bottle in the shower that morning, “there’s something…something we need to- Fuck, no, I can’t say ‘we need to _talk_ ’!” He pushed up from the wall, running a hand back through his hair as he paced back and forth in front of the open doorway back into the café. “Something we- Something _I_ need to say, need to- to tell you. I- It’s about-”

Faintly, and probably only because his ears were so acutely attuned to the sound, he heard the front door chime, and rushed back inside, not entirely certain Sherlock wouldn’t attempt a macchiato if pressed, but, as he neared the main door, loud voices reached his ears, and he stopped in his tracks, hand frozen halfway to the thin wooden barrier.

“Thought you’d have locked yourself in a practice room until showtime,” a young man said, the voice unfamiliar, but John recognized Sherlock’s responding chuckle.

“Not quite,” the man responded, easily, maybe even amused, and John’s eyes widened as hot lead slowly filled his stomach.

“Hudson not workin’ ya too hard, then?” the voice asked again, and John winced, the knife twisting into his back almost tangible.

“No more than usual,” Sherlock answered simply, honestly, without prevarication, and John closed his eyes, swallowing down the simmering humiliation.

Guess Sherlock didn’t lie to everyone after all.

“She’s always worse before a performance, but she’s mostly taking it out on the newer students,” Sherlock finished, and two unidentified men laughed, though it was only the one who continued speaking.

“You’ve been spared!” he teased, and Sherlock chuckled.

“For the time being.”

“Well, try to keep it that way,” the man advised, and John’s eyes narrowed at the tender tone. “I still remember you hobbling around school after _The Nutcracker_. You couldn’t walk without wincing for a week!”

“That wasn’t Mrs. Hudson’s fault,” Sherlock defended, but didn’t get any further, John pushing through the door at that moment to see exactly who the fuck thought they were allowed to show any interest in the state of his maybe-sort-of-boyfriend’s feet.

All three men turned to John when he appeared, Sherlock still seated at the corner table while the two newcomers stood in front of him, and the flash of panic in the dancer’s grey eyes as they darted between him and the visitors made unmistakably clear what John had always suspected.

He was not wanted here.

“Hello,” he said all the same, however, needing the paycheck a little too much to storm out. “I can take your order over here whenever you’re ready,” he added, pointing to the register he swiftly moved behind, and the man closer to Sherlock—and, thus, presumably also the one with the foot fetish—smiled at him, revealing two straight rows of brilliant white teeth.

“I think we’re ready,” he replied, turning to check with his shorter dark-haired companion, who nodded as he too approached. “Just two coffees to-go, please,” the man ordered, and, though he seemed nice enough, his blond hair was unnaturally shiny, and his black leather wallet had the Gucci symbol branded in a corner, so John was going to stereotype the hell out of him regardless. “Milk in one, nothing in the other.”

“Which roast?” John asked, flicking a finger over his shoulder in gesture to the board behind him, but the man didn’t even look up.

“Medium,” he asserted with all the ease of a regular, and John simply nodded, typing in the order before taking the proffered coins. “Great,” he said as he counted out the man’s change, forcing a smile at the man and his short dark-haired companion. “That’ll be right up.”

The blond smiled, giving John a nod as he dropped his change into the tip jar, and then the two turned back to Sherlock, prompting John to attempt to set a land speed record for fastest coffees ever poured.

“So,” the blond man continued, moving over to pull out the chair beside Sherlock, John nearly slopping scalding coffee over his hand as he hastily filled the first cup, “what else have you been up to? How’s…chemistry?”

John glanced over his shoulder to see Sherlock nod, and then focused back on his task, clipping the lid on the plain coffee before moving on to the next.

“Chemistry’s fine,” Sherlock replied at John’s back, the sound of a chair scraping across the floor intertwining with the blond man’s chuckle. “Uneventful, really. It’s only the first year.”

“Probably all review for you, then,” the blond answered, and John flinched as the chair shifted again. “Doubt you’ll learn anything new until year three at the earliest.”

Sherlock did not reply, not aloud, at least, but he must have done something, as, a moment later, the blond man continued.

“What about everything else?” he asked, John glancing back as he moved to fetch the milk from the fridge to find the blond had moved around to Sherlock’s side of the square table, but the dark-haired companion was blocking most of his view. “You still living at home?”

“No,” Sherlock replied as John bent down, collecting the milk before closing the refrigerator door and crossing back to the coffees, “I’ve got a place in the city now. Baker Street.”

“Baker Street?” the blond echoed. “Nice spot. Bit far out though.”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock answered, and John splashed some milk into the cup, quickly twisting the cap back on the container and reaching for the second lid. “Quieter up that way.”

“True,” the blond chuckled, and John snapped the lid on, the tense set of his shoulders beginning to relax as he reached to gather up the cups, eager to give the two men their drinks and send them on their way. “So, what else is going on?” the man asked as John’s fingers closed around the coffees. “You seeing anyone?”

John froze, his eyes widening as he stared down at the coffees resting on the counter, his grip twitching against the cardboard sleeves.

“Er,” Sherlock murmured, and John didn’t dare turn around, merely holding his breath as he stared down at the blurring countertop. “I- No,” the detective answered, and John’s eyelids fluttered in a stifled flinch, his jaw clenching as a stiff swallow rolled down his throat. “No, I’m- Well-”

“Here ya go!” John blurted, forcing the tremors from his hands as he placed the coffees on the ledge, and the two men moved from beside Sherlock’s table, revealing the anxious dancer still seated by the window, his gaze focused on John, who carefully avoided it. “This one’s got the milk,” he said, shifting one of the cups, and the brown-haired man took it with a grateful nod, the blond grabbing the other.

“Cheers,” the blond said, tipping his cup at John, who twitched a polite smile in response before the two men turned to go. “Good seein’ ya, Sherlock,” he added, pausing beside the table again, and John twisted away, grabbing a rag and wiping at nothing on the counter beside the coffee machines. “We’ll have to meet up properly sometime. Catch up.”

“Er, yeah,” Sherlock muttered, and John’s hand clenched to a fist against the towel. “Yeah, sure.”

“Great!” the blond said, and leather-soled footsteps started to retreat toward the door. “Your number still the same?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock confirmed, and John glanced over his shoulder to see the blond man silhouetted against the light shining through the glass front door.

“I’ll text you then,” he said, giving a nod as he stepped aside for the brown-haired man to leave ahead of him.

“Okay,” Sherlock replied, voice slightly strained, but John couldn’t look at him to confirm the discomfort, and focused back on the pointless cleaning.

“Okay,” the blond repeated, and there was a small squeak of the door beginning to close. “Don’t let Mrs. Hudson work you too hard,” he added, John’s teeth clenching as Sherlock chuckled stiffly.

“I won’t,” he replied, and the door creaked shut a little more.

“Well, alright then. See ya!”

“Yeah, er, see ya,” Sherlock muttered back, the door rattling closed a moment later, leaving the two of them alone in the now-silent café.

John continued to scrub at the counter, eventually moving on to cleaning the nozzles of the espresso machine as his furious heartbeat pounded in his ears, but he still heard the grate of Sherlock’s chair across the floor, and his motions stuttered, giving him away.

“John?”

He swallowed, slowly lowering the rag to the counter. “Yeah?” he answered, voice high and comically far from nonchalant, but he tried to keep his expression impassive regardless, eyebrows lifting inquiringly as he turned around.

Sherlock stood beside his chair, grey eyes scanning over John’s face, the gaze growing more harried with every sweep. He opened his mouth, drawing in a breath, and then closed in again, swallowing down at the ground before determinedly lifting his chin. “We went to secondary school together,” he muttered, pointing a thumb back at the door. “Victor and I. I-I don’t know who that was with him.”

John’s eyes shifted aimlessly around the interior of the counter in front of him, lingering on the supply of paper-wrapped straws as he nodded. “That’s nice,” he said, the sibilant sounds hissing a little sharper than intended, and he quickly turned back around on the pretense of checking the waste unit on the espresso machine.

“You emptied it before you took the rubbish out,” Sherlock said softly, his voice a little closer now, and John’s fingers stalled on the machine, his jaw twitching. “John?”

“What?” John just shy of snapped, checking the waste unit anyway before slamming the drawer back into place.

Sherlock was silent a moment, and John used the few seconds to breathe, trying to ease the trembling in his fingers as he closed the cover on the machine. “You’re angry with me,” the detective murmured, and it wasn’t a question, so John didn’t answer, just blinked at his reflection in the hammered copper of the espresso machine. “Is it-Is it the seeing someone thing?” the man supposed, and John further turned his back, his fingers trailing down the ridges of a stack of paper cups just a hair too fast to actually be counting them. “Because I didn’t- I mean, Victor- He didn’t mean anything by it, and I-I wasn’t sure- I didn’t want to presume-”

“It’s fine,” John interjected, shaking his head at the cups before turning around, meeting Sherlock’s befuddled gaze for as brief a moment as his extraocular muscles would allow. “I understand. And, regardless,” he added, moving closer to Sherlock’s side of the counter, though he kept his eyes downcast, focusing on the bottles of caramel and chocolate he busied himself with checking the levels of, “it’s not as if it was a _lie_.”

Sherlock was mostly just a blurry silhouette through his lashes, but he could still make out the sharp tilt of the dancer’s head as he drew closer to the counter’s edge. “What are you talking about?” he asked, drawing even nearer when John did not reply. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” John asserted, rattling his head as he snatched up a silver canister of whipped cream, heading toward the backroom. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right back, I just have to-”

“You refilled those an hour ago.”

“It evaporates.”

“John!”

“What!?” John snarled, spinning on the spot, letting the door he had been halfway through close behind him as he fixed the startled man with a glare. “What do you want me to say? I said it was fine, so it’s fine, alright? Now, can we please just-”

“No!” Sherlock urged, stepping forward determinedly. “No, we can’t ‘drop it’; what is the _matter_ with you!?” he demanded, eyes roving critically over John’s frame. “Just ten minutes ago, you were fine!”

“Yeah, well, that was before your little class reunion, and now it’s after, so…” He trailed away, lifting his brows sarcastically, and got halfway through turning around again before Sherlock shook himself out of his stunned gaping.

“What are you _talking_ about!?” he spluttered, and John stared at the backroom door, his hand still resting on the wood even as he stopped applying pressure. “They were in here for five minutes! And Victor and I are just friends, I don’t know what you think you have to be jeal-”

“I’m not _jealous_!” John countered, rounding on him again, but Sherlock held his ground, a slight narrowing of his eyes his only reaction to the outburst. “Do I look like a 14-year-old girl to you?”

Sherlock quirked a brow. “I wasn’t aware there was a correlation between gender and jealous tendencies,” he mocked, lifting his chin superiorly, and, for some reason, it made John furious, seeing the man standing there on his soapbox like he had any right to it, and the indignation loosened his tongue, words he wasn’t particularly proud of promptly snarling over his teeth.

“Why did you lie about this weekend?” he challenged, and Sherlock froze, his eyes blinking once in shock before filling with panic. “I heard you,” he explained, shifting his gaze to the table past Sherlock’s shoulder. “Mrs. Hudson. The spring arts celebration. The Nutcracker,” he spat, and Sherlock winced, his eyes dropping to the ground. “Can’t imagine how you’re gonna squeeze in that chemistry meeting around the ballet, but, hey, if worst comes to worst,“—he smiled, a wry twist of his mouth—“I’m sure you can make _something_ up.”

Sherlock said nothing, blinking ashamedly at the café floor while John continued to glare.

“Maybe you can even invite Victor along,” he added, figuring he might as well go all-out with the pettiness at this point. “He seems the ballet type.”

“I-I was going to tell you-”

“When?” John countered, and Sherlock shrank back into silence. “When it was over and you wouldn’t have to come up with some flimsy excuse to keep me away?”

“What?” Sherlock questioned, confusion sparking through the shame in his eyes, but John wasn’t in the mood to be the one answering questions, and rolled his eyes, moving to turn around again.

“Forget it,” he muttered. “Good luck with the show. I hope you and Victor have a _fabulous_ time.”

“What? Victor? What are you _talking_ about!?” Sherlock spluttered, rushing up to John’s side before he could make his escape into the back. “I don’t want Victor to come to the show!”

“So you can meet up afterwards for a dinner cruise on his yacht, the fuck do I care?” John snipped, shoulders twitching in an irritable shrug. “Just so long as you don’t stop in here for coffee. I don’t need the tips quite that badly.”

“John!”

“It’s fine, Sherlock!” he cried, lifting a hand to block the man’s approach as he shuffled a step back toward the door. “I get it, really! You can’t be seen rubbing shoulders with someone who wears an apron.”

Sherlock stared at him in silence for a long moment, lips slightly parted, wide eyes blinking wildly, and then, slowly, he pieced together a sentence. “You-You think- You think I didn’t tell you about the show...because I didn’t want to be seen with you?”

John’s anger flagged slightly, uncertainty beginning to wriggle up his throat as Sherlock looked at him expectantly. “I- Maybe,” he muttered, and Sherlock’s posture went slack with shock, his mouth dropping open.

“You-You honestly- You thought _I_ was ashamed of _you_?” he asked, hand moving in a vague gesture between them, and John closed his mouth, heat rising up his neck as he looked over Sherlock’s flabbergasted expression.

“Well, I- You-” John stammered, but he was cut off as Sherlock let out a sharp huff of laughter, the sound steadily growing until he was shaking with it, head bowed and fist pressed against his mouth in a vain attempt to stifle the mirth. John narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms stubbornly even as he could feel his face going nuclear. “I don’t see what’s so funny about it,” he snapped, and Sherlock shook his head, lifting a hand to John apologetically.

“No, it’s not- It’s not that, I just- I can’t believe you _actually_ thought-” He dissolved into laughter again, turning away from John as he clapped a hand to his mouth, John glaring daggers at the side of his face.

“Right,” he clipped, spinning back to the door on his soles, but Sherlock caught his forearm.

“No, wait, I-I’m sorry, it’s just- That’s not- That’s not it at _all_ ,” he urged, holding John’s gaze as John skeptically searched his eyes.

Finally, he blinked away, shifting his posture back to face the man as he tugged his arm free, reaching out to drop the whipped cream canister on the counter, and Sherlock gave him a small nod of gratitude before starting in.

“I- Okay, I-I know I should’ve told you,” he began, and John flicked his brows, that much fairly obvious, in his opinion, “and I’m sorry, I-I never intended for you to find out like that”—he looked back over his shoulder, waving a hand at the corner table—“but I- The _reason_ I didn’t tell you has _nothing_ to do with…with you wearing an apron.” He smiled faintly, evidently aiming for that to be a joke, but it fell flat, John simply quirking a brow, and Sherlock hastily cleared his throat, rubbing up the back of his neck as he continued. “I, um- Well, it sounds rather silly now that I’m actually hearing it,” he muttered, whirling a finger beside his ear, “but I, er… You remember when we first met? Here, at the café?” he asked, waiting for John to nod before moving on. “Well, I’d just come from-from practice,” he said, pointing a thumb out the front window, and John’s jaw tightened, his own deception beginning to grow bitter on his tongue. “The studio’s right across the street, and Mrs. Hudson, she-she’s my ballet teacher,” he admitted, and John dropped his eyes, afraid to give his non-surprise away. “She’s also an old family friend,” the detective rushed to add, “but…but mostly because she was my ballet teacher.”

There was a pause, John glancing up to find Sherlock already looking at him, a small wary crease across his forehead, as if double-checking that John had any interest in hearing this at all, and John nodded, Sherlock twitching his lips back in a frail apologetic smile.

“Anyway, I-I would’ve normally just mentioned it right then, but- Well, then we got talking, and- This really does sound stupid,” he muttered, shaking his head as he closed his eyes against the apparent self-loathing, and then ducked his chin, peering shyly up at John through his lashes. “You see, the whole you being the rugby captain thing came up relatively early in the conversation, and I- Well, I wanted you to like me, and I-I thought, if you knew I- I didn’t think you would- I was worried you’d-”

“You thought, because I play rugby,” John interjected, the train wreck growing too painful to watch, “I wouldn’t like someone who does ballet?”

Now, it was Sherlock’s turn to look caught in the headlamps, his cheeks darkening as he bit at his lip, eyes darting aimlessly.

John stared, a frown growing on his face as the absurdity slowly sank in. “But-But that’s-”

“I know.”

“Why would that-”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why would you-”

“I honestly have no idea.”

“Did you think…what? That I would…think you were gay, or- But, if you wanted me to like you-”

“I _know_ , I know!”

“-why would it matter if I thought you were gay?”

“I don’t _know_!”

“And didn’t you find out I was bi, like, two minutes after that?”

“Something like that.”

“So…why didn’t you say something?” John asked, utterly perplexed. “What could you possibly have been worried about?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it, swallowing down at his shoes as he shuffled them against the floor.

“Sherlock?” John prompted, and the man sighed, scraping his teeth over his lip as he twisted his hands together in front of him.

“It’s-It’s nothing, I-I just- When I was in secondary school—like, early secondary school, I was 13—I sort of- There was this…boy,” he murmured, grimacing up at John as he curled his shoulders protectively, “Seb Wilkes, and he-he was on the rugby team, and we- Well, we weren’t exactly- Nothing ever _happened_ , but it sort of almost did a few times, and-and then…then his teammates started in on him, saying all the usual sorts of things because he hung out with a ‘faerie’.” He curled his fingers around the word, his tone stiffening with a bitterness the years had not entirely wiped away. “And he- Well,” he muttered, shrugging a shoulder, “the only time I ever saw him after that was when he was shoving me into lockers.”

John dropped his eyes, guilt, sympathy, shame, and anger all coiling together in his stomach, burning up his throat. Peering up through his lashes, he saw Sherlock looking away, his eyes on the wall, and yet somehow much farther, and John took a deep breath, just as resolved as he was terrified.

“I-I know it’s not fair,” Sherlock continued, shaking his head down to the floor, “assuming something like that about you, but the situation was just so similar, I guess I-”

“I need to show you something,” John interrupted, and Sherlock blinked up to him, alarmed a moment before confusion creased the pale skin between his brows.

“What?” he questioned, but John was already reaching forward, taking him by the wrist and guiding him back behind the counter. “What are you- I can’t go back there!” he argued, tugging his hand away and looking at the line separating the café hardwood from the behind-the-counter tile. “I don’t work here!”

“Yes, well, lucky for you, the lasers than instantly incinerate anyone not wearing a nametag aren’t working today,” John replied, responding to Sherlock’s icy look with a bright grin as he grabbed the man’s arm again, pulling him across the threshold.

“What if someone comes in?” Sherlock hissed, scanning the front windows. “Your boss or something?”

“He won’t.”

“How do you-”

“Stand here,” John ordered, pointing at the floor just behind the register, and Sherlock frowned, a single brow lifting as he stared at the spot on the tile.

“Why?” he asked warily, and John huffed, rolling his eyes and giving the detective a sharp tug into place, steadying him by the shoulders when he threatened to overbalance. “What are you-”

“Look,” John commanded, Sherlock snapping his head around with a glower, but John only lifted his brows, pushing lightly at Sherlock’s head in encouragement, and the detective complied, albeit with a grudging huff.

“At what?” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders out at the empty café. “I don’t-”

“Out there,” John guided, pointed up toward the street beyond the windows, and Sherlock’s gaze lifted, though his forehead remained furrowed.

“A cab,” he deadpanned, and John rolled his eyes.

“Higher.”

“Street sign.”

“Above that.”

“Probably clouds.”

“Sherlock.”

“Well, this is pointless!” he blustered, flashing a frustrated look back over his shoulder. “You could be talking about anything! Look, there’s a pigeon; is that what’s so- Hey!”

John grabbed him roughly by the chin, tilting his head up and to the left, and, after a brief moment of terror that Sherlock was actually considering biting his fingers off, the man stilled, anger slowly sliding off his face as his eyes fixed on a point across the street. John let his hand drop away, shuffling back a step to lean against the counter as Sherlock blinked dazedly up at the spot.

“Is-” he breathed, glancing back at John, “Is that my-”

“Yes,” John broke in, a bit too nervous to wait for full sentences, and Sherlock’s lips dropped apart, his eyes wide and searching as he turned.

“Did-Did you-” he began again, gesturing back at the building, and John nodded, the dancer’s jaw falling ever further. “Wha- When? How-How long-”

“A while,” John murmured, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans, but Sherlock’s face hardened, that answer clearly not going to suffice. John sighed, his eyes dropping to the toe of his trainer as he dragged it back-and-forth across the tile. “A couple...”—he hesitated, swallowing as he chanced a peek at the man through his lashes—“months.”

“ _Months_!?”

“Well, it’s not like I knew who you were!” John trumpeted in defense. “I couldn’t exactly pop over and introduce myself!”

“No, of course not,” Sherlock mocked, shaking his head exaggeratedly. “Because _that_ would have been weird.”

John lifted his chin, giving the man his best stone-faced glare, but Sherlock wasn’t moved, and merely curled a brow at him until John reluctantly gave in and turned away. He was staring at the counter beside him, trying to plan out some way to salvage the situation, when there was a soft sound of breath to his left, and he looked up, finding Sherlock’s head ducked to the ground, his shoulders twitching with laughter and a brilliant smile on his face. “What?” John pressed, his own lips curling in confused response, and Sherlock shook his head, waving a hand to dismiss the question.

“No, nothing, it’s just-” he chuckled, rattling his head again before lifting his sparkling eyes to John’s. “You were peeping on me.” He collapsed into laughter again, John watching him with a confused mix of embarrassment and offense.

“No, I- You were the one practicing in front of a _window_!”

“You didn’t have to _look_!”

“Yeah, well, I tried not to!” John countered helplessly, and Sherlock leaned back against the counter as he laughed, bracing himself on a palm. “Easier said than done, it turns out.”

“I guess so,” Sherlock remarked, still chuckling at him, and John shook his head, trying to convey indignation even as he could feel his own lips being pulled up against his will.

Eventually, Sherlock’s laughter eased away, the two of them just standing there in the narrow width behind the counter, gazes crossing every now and again before darting away.

“You know,” Sherlock said finally, his eyes flickering back to look up at the studio, “seeing as how you’ve _been_ to the practices,” he teased, smirking as John sneered, “if-if you wanted- Well, you might as well come to the show.” He shrugged a shoulder, smiling softly as John blinked at him in surprise, having fully expected to at least be given the cold shoulder for a few days in retaliation for the breach of privacy. “I mean,” Sherlock continued, scratching at his neck, “you don’t have to. I just thought-”

“No,” John hastened, earnestly shaking his head. “No, I-I want to.”

Sherlock was impassive a moment, regarding him, and then smiled, a soft thing that warmed the entire room, setting butterflies loose in John’s stomach. “Okay then,” he murmured, fidgeting with the cuff of his thin navy jumper. “But, just for the record,” he continued, a corner of his mouth curling slyly, “there won’t be a dinner cruise.”

John set his jaw against a smile, his eyebrows twitching indecisively as he tried to force a glare, but ultimately had to look away, shaking his head out at the window as Sherlock grinned triumphantly at his discomfort. “Git,” John muttered, swatting a hand out toward the detective’s side, but Sherlock was quicker, catching his hand in the air, and he turned, eyes lifting from the man’s grip to his face to find they’d drifted unexpectedly close together, barely a foot between their bodies in some places.

Sherlock blinked at him, equally startled, and then, so fast John almost missed it, grey eyes flicked down to his lips, and that was all the invitation John needed, slowly turning to face the man as he turned his hand over in his own.

Focusing down on the pale fingers, he slowly slipped his in to fill the gaps, grazing a thumb across Sherlock’s palm before pressing his own against the smooth surface, and the dancer’s breath hitched, John glancing up to find the man’s eyes transfixed on their intertwining digits. John paused a moment, an absentminded smile on his face as his eyes swept over Sherlock, memorizing the details of the yellow light caught in his hair, the impossible length of his dark lashes, the sharp sweeps of his cheekbones, and then his eyes, a brilliant grey-green that blinked up to settle on his own.

“What?” Sherlock whispered, a wary ridge beginning to form between his brows, and John quickly shook his head to assuage his fears.

“Nothing,” he breathed, lowering their locked hands to his side as he stepped forward, slowly moving his free hand to graze down Sherlock’s jaw before finally reaching his chin, gently tipping it down as he tipped his up.

Sherlock’s gasped against his lips the second before they met, and then didn’t move again for a moment, seeming temporarily stunned, but John didn’t mind, and moved chastely against his mouth as his hand slipped back up Sherlock’s neck to push into the base of his curls. That seemed to unlock the detective somehow, one of likely many keys John looked forward to finding, and he pressed eagerly back against John’s mouth, his hand tightening its grip on John’s while the opposite one lifted to grasp gently at the striped cotton stretched across John’s chest.

John, in response, shifted closer, crowding Sherlock back against the counter, their chests brushing with tandem stolen breaths as John grate his fingers back across Sherlock’s skull, the curls soft and his nails rough, and a stifled whimper vibrated through Sherlock’s mouth, making John’s head spin. Needing more hands, he reluctantly released his grip on Sherlock’s fingers, lifting instead to the man’s waist, pulling him in to press their torsos together.

Sherlock’s loose hand settled lightly on his arm, resting just above his elbow, but his grip tightened on John’s bicep as John tilted his head, flicking his tongue across Sherlock’s bottom lip in a teasing suggestion before pulling away. Their noses brushed as they breathed against one another, lips meeting in a few additional chaste presses before John finally stepped back, his fingertips trailing off Sherlock’s side like he was fighting magnetic polarity.

“We, er-” he said, breathless even as he dragged in heavy gusts of oxygen. “We should-”

“Yeah,” Sherlock agreed, nodding as he pushed himself free of the counter, patting down his tousled curls. “Yeah, I, er- I shouldn’t-”

“No.”

“Someone could-”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” Sherlock nodded, taking a few steps toward the opening back out into the café, and then stopped, glancing back to where John had been watching him go. His eyes narrowed a moment, calculating, and then he started to smile, the curve of his flushed lips quickly growing to a smirk as John darkened guiltily. “Yes?” he mockingly inquired, and John glared at him, grabbing a nearby rag and flicking it out to swat him on the arm.

“Go finish your crossword,” he grumbled, and Sherlock laughed, rounding the counter to return to his table while John settled back behind the register, eyes still fixed on the back of the detective’s head.

Sherlock, of course, looked back at that moment, moving too quickly for John to snap his face away, and then grinned so brilliantly, John was most certainly going to need the portable defibrillator they had in the back.

He shook his head, frustrated in about seven different ways, and Sherlock laughed, clearly thrilled with his torment, but, before John could throw him some choice words—or drag him into the back—the door opened, Molly striding back inside with their sandwiches in hand and Irene in tow.

“Look who I found at the sandwich shop!” she chimed, beaming around at them both, and then her face turned thoughtful, her eyes settling on John with a worried look. “Are you alright?” she asked, and John frowned, tilting his head in confusion. “You look a bit red,” she added, and Sherlock burst into peals of laughter, collapsing forward over his crossword puzzle while John glared daggers at his back. “What?” Molly muttered, casting a perplexed look at them all. “What is it? What did I say?”

It was a long while until anyone answered her, the four of them gathered around the large corner table devouring sandwiches and tossing stray bits of lettuce at one another before Irene finally kicked John hard enough under the table that he relented, and then Molly simply gaped at him, Irene and Sherlock watching the scene with thinly veiled amusement.

“ _Here_!?” she shrieked.

John winced, narrowing his eyes in irritation. “Well, where else was I-”

“Literally _anywhere_!” Molly interjected, thumping her sandwich down onto its wrappings. “Anywhere would have been better! Who the hell wants their first kiss to be in a café!?”

“Not my first kiss,” Sherlock chimed in, lifting a finger, but Molly waved a hand at him with a dismissive huff.

“First kiss as a couple,” she amended exasperatedly. “It’s important every time, you know.”

“But what does the place matter?” John challenged, swallowing a bite of his roast beef. “I mean, it’s good or it’s bad regardless, isn’t it?”

“Oh, honestly, John, don’t be such a _guy_!” Molly snapped, and John blinked in affront, looking to Sherlock for support only to find him hiding a smile in his ham and cheese. “The place is _important_! You’re going to remember it, so it should be somewhere special.”

“Well, they did meet here,” Irene offered, apparently the only person on John’s team, and he waved a hand at her, seconding the point.

“Only technically,” Sherlock countered, shrugging a shoulder. “He’d already been stalking me for months.”

The girls burst into laughter while Sherlock simply looked at John, smiling smugly around a mouthful of bread while John tried to figure out how he could want to strangle and kiss someone so much at the same time.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone approaching the café, their glance up at the sign as they approached indicating no other destination, and he rose from his seat, tucking the chair back in under the table as he rounded it. “If you’ll excuse me, _children_ ,” he chided, giving them each a pointed look, “some of us have to work for a living.”

“I’ll be right there,” Molly said, making to wrap up her sandwich, but John waved her to stay, making his way around the counter to the register.

“No, don’t worry about it,” he assured, smiling as Molly lifted a skeptical brow. “It’s just the one guy. Finish your lunch.”

“Well…alright,” Molly said with a grateful nod, and then John’s view was obscured by Irene leaning across toward Sherlock, cupping her hand to her mouth as she stage-whispered.

“I’m beginning to understand what you see in him,” she hissed, Sherlock chuckling as she withdrew.

“What do you mean ‘beginning to’?” John snipped. “And why’s no one wondering what I see in _him_?”

“Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock replied, a glint in his eye that didn’t bode well for John’s nerves. “I do ballet.”

Molly slammed a hand to her mouth to avoid spewing soda all over the table, Irene nearly knocked her chair to the ground as she flung backwards in laughter, but Sherlock remained entirely calm, smirking blithely back at what John was sure was an expression of both outrage and disbelief.

Just then, the door chimed, and John hastened to collect himself, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock’s smug expression to the gentleman walking through the door. “Hello,” he said, clearing his throat when his voice cracked. “What can I get for you this evening?”

*********

5:17

John blinked at the time on the clock, the red light shining back at him in mocking, and then sighed, already missing the 13 minutes of sleep he could’ve gotten before the alarm went off. Rolling onto his back, he slung an arm over his eyes, internally cursing himself for not listening to Sherlock last night when he told him he’d regret watching “just one more” Bond movie before bed. Not that he’d ever tell him that, of course, although he’d probably figure it out anyway, but, as John turned to his left, lifting his arm to peer out of his makeshift cocoon, it appeared he was temporarily spared the ‘I told you so’s.

Sherlock was still fast asleep, lying mostly on his stomach with his head turned toward John, lips slightly parted as his spine rose and fell with his breaths.

John lifted his arm off his face, rolling onto his side as he watched Sherlock’s lashes twitch with a sleepy smile.

Three months in, and John still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea of waking up next to Sherlock Holmes. It had, over the weeks, become something of the norm, John spending far more nights at Baker Street than his own flat, but he still woke up every morning surprised, heart aching with how lucky he was.

Sherlock wasn’t a joy to live with all the time, of course, John having found more than his fair share of deeply disturbing things in the fridge, but it was something else entirely to be able to see him sleeping, to know what it looked like to see a shooting star at rest, because Sherlock never stopped for anything while he was awake, leaping from one project or case to the next with no regard for his personal safety or dietary habits, but John loved him just as much then too.

Not that they’d actually told one another that yet, but John was working up to it. Maybe month four. Four and a half? He’d figure it out, but, for now, he leaned in, dropping a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s jaw, which, to him, meant the same thing.

Sherlock stirred only faintly, a slight shift in the rhythm of his breathing, and John smiled, turning back to glance at the clock over his shoulder.

5:19. Plenty of time.

With a smirk only the creeping dawn light saw, he quietly shifted on the mattress, shuffling closer to Sherlock as he leaned up and over him, dropping his lips to the back of his neck.

A muscle in Sherlock’s arm twitched, but nothing more, so John moved on, dragging his lips down the man’s shoulder, peppering kisses all the while. When he reached the bottom of Sherlock’s shoulder blade, he needed to start pulling away the blanket, moving up onto his knees as he straddled one of the man’s spread legs, and then placed his mouth at the top of Sherlock’s spine, slowly working his way down the vertebrae as the hand he didn’t need for balance dragged the cool sheet off Sherlock’s back, his fingers skating across Sherlock’s ribs as he went.

He was maybe halfway down when he thought Sherlock was awake, but, by the time he neared his tailbone, he was sure of it, the hitches and pants of Sherlock’s breath clearly audible in the quiet room, and John lifted his head, peering up to see Sherlock’s fingers gripped tight against his pillow. John chuckled, sitting back on his knees, and the dancer craned his neck around, still-bleary but dark eyes fixing on John’s face.

Gently, John tapped on the man’s hip, gesturing for him to flip over, and Sherlock hastily tried to comply, John chuckling softly as his groggy limbs got caught in the sheets. He did eventually manage to flip himself over, however, exposing the evidence of the effect of John’s ministrations, but John ignored that for the moment, leaning up from where he knelt between Sherlock’s spread legs to click a chaste kiss to the man’s mouth.

“Morning,” he murmured, and Sherlock sighed, a hand lazily lifting to card through John’s hair.

“M’rning,” he mumbled back against John’s lips, and John chuckled, ducking his head to nip at the man’s ear.

“You gonna fall back asleep on me?” he teased, and Sherlock huffed a faint laugh.

“Depends,” he replied, pulling lightly on John’s hair to guide him back up to looking at the glittering grey eyes. “Are you gonna keep me awake?” He waggled his brows, and John laughed, ducking his head to press a kiss to Sherlock’s neck.

“I’m gonna try,” he replied, the words muffled as he dragged his mouth down to a collarbone, scraping his teeth over the thin skin, and Sherlock’s chuckle quickly turned into a gasp, his fingers tightening in John’s hair.

As slow as he could manage, he kissed a trail down Sherlock’s chest, pausing at each of his nipples to drop a sharp flick of his tongue, and Sherlock moaned, just like he always did, hips lifting up to brush his firm cock against John’s torso. “Shhh,” John chided, moving a hand to Sherlock’s hipbone to hold him down. “Not so fast,” he whispered against Sherlock’s ribs, chuckling when the man gave a sharp tug on his hair in retaliation, and then pulled out of range of Sherlock’s grip, moving his mouth to the inside of the man’s left thigh.

Sherlock writhed as John’s lips brushed over his skin, sweeping and swirling with the occasional slide of tongue or scrape of stubble, and, by the time John neared the top of his thigh, Sherlock was positively trembling, his cock twitching violently as John panted out a hot humid breath over the sensitive skin. “John,” he gasped, hips struggling under John’s hand, and John closed his eyes, forcibly reminding himself that Sherlock had practice later that day, and, while the dancer didn’t seem to care if he was sore, John liked to avoid causing even further stress to the man’s already spread-thin body.

Instead, he settled his mouth over the head of Sherlock’s cock, tongue swirling around the flushed skin, collecting the liquid already gathered at the tip, and Sherlock’s neck snapped back with a groan, one hand coming unfixed from the sheets to latch onto John’s hair, his nails digging into his scalp. Smiling smugly to himself, John turned his head, slowly trailing his tongue down along the throbbing vein, and Sherlock might have actually pulled some of his hair out.

“John!” he practically begged, but John wanted the proper stuff, and swirled his tongue around each of Sherlock’s balls in turn, watching the resulting muscle spasm shaking out across the man’s thigh. “Fuck, John!” Sherlock cried, and John wondered if he was doing that on purpose, knowing full-well that the fact that he cursed almost exclusively in bed was inexplicably one of John’s turn-ons, but then… “Please,” he whimpered, tugging at John’s scalp. “Please, John, ple-“

John licked a thick stripe back up the man’s shaft, robbing Sherlock of the last syllable, and then closed his mouth about the heated flesh, bobbing quickly down to the base before lifting back up to tongue at the head.

“Fuck!” Sherlock shouted, and, okay, he was probably definitely doing it on purpose, but John didn’t really care, groaning against Sherlock’s cock as he dropped down it again, increasing the pressure of his mouth as he found a rhythm. “GOD, fuck, John! John!”

John added a swirl of his tongue over the head with every draw back up, and Sherlock soon stopped making any sense at all, stumbling words and gasps all blurring together until his grip turned to iron in John’s hair, hips thrashing futilely against John’s hand as he came, head thrown back and mouth wide open. John sucked all of him down, continuing to lave over his softening cock until Sherlock started to twitch from oversensitivity, and then pulled off with a pop, wiping his mouth with one hand while the other trailed up and down Sherlock’s thigh.

“I’ve gotta shower,” he said softly, the clock now reading 5:38, and Sherlock grunted in response, John chuckling as he moved to the edge of the mattress, dropping a kiss to Sherlock’s temple before gathering some clothes from the dresser and heading to the bathroom.

The first thing he did was brush his teeth, and then turned the water on, waiting for it to heat up as he stripped out of his boxers, wincing as he grazed against his own erection. He took care of that as soon as he got in the shower—fucking Sherlock and his fucking ‘fuck’s—and then hastily scrubbed himself down with soap before reaching for the shampoo, just beginning to lather it into his hair when the bathroom door clicked open.

John chuckled, never ceasing to be amused by Sherlock’s morning routine on the days John was forced or begged into taking an early shift at the café. “What’s the story, morning glory?” he joked, and Sherlock, wearing only a sheet and a scowl, grunted at him, squinting against the lights as he shimmied up to sitting on the bathroom counter. John smiled, watching as the man slowly adjusted to the brightness, one pale hand lifting to scratch at his unruly mop of curls. “You don’t have to get up with me, you know,” he said, just like he always did, and, equally true to form, Sherlock nodded.

“I know,” he replied, pulling his hand back beneath the sheet as he drew the fabric tighter around his shoulders, and then simply stared down at his feet where they hovered a few inches off the floor, kicking in soft thumps against the under-sink cabinet doors.

John frowned, starting to rinse out the shampoo as he watched his boyfriend, slowly growing concerned by the uncharacteristic silence. “Sherlock?” he prompted after another few moments, and the man looked up, still tired enough that John could see through the mask of nonchalance. “You alright?”

Sherlock frowned in unconvincing confusion. “Of course,” he quite apparently lied, “why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” John replied, because he didn’t, his mind casting about for any possibilities as he shook the water through his hair. “You seem kind of…distracted,” he added, but Sherlock only shrugged.

“I guess I’m just tired,” he muttered down at his knees, and John temporarily abandoned his hair to stare at the man through the glass door.

“Sherlock,” he demanded, and the detective wriggled against the counter as he shifted his weight. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he initially replied, peering at John through his lashes, but John only stared at him, and, after a moment, he sighed. “I just- I was thinking- You know what you said? Last night?” he began, and John nodded, remembering quite clearly. “Well, I-I don’t think I- I probably should have-” he stammered, and John turned his face to hide his smile, biting his lip as a fond warmth rose in his chest. “You know, actually,” the man rushed, sliding off the counter, “we can talk about this later. I haven’t put the kettle on yet, and-”

“Sherlock,” John chuckled, stopping him just before he made his escape out the door, and the man turned back to him, cheeks blazing from more than just the steam. “I already talked to Mike,” he said, and Sherlock blinked, hand falling away from the doorknob. “Told him I’d made other living arrangements,” he added with a smirk, and Sherlock smiled, shyly ducked his head as he fiddled with the blanket at his shoulder.

“That was awfully confident of you,” he replied. “What if I hadn’t said yes?”

“You didn’t say yes,” John reminded, and Sherlock flushed even darker. “I told you my lease was up and I had to make a choice about next year, and you stared at me for two minutes and then went downstairs to check on the eyeballs you had in the microwave.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it, staring at John’s smugly rising brow the entire time. “Well, I said a lot in my head!” he suddenly blurted, and John laughed, turning back to the wall to turn off the shower.

“I’m sure you did,” he soothed, winking at Sherlock’s sneer. “Go get dressed,” he added, bobbing his head at the door as he rolled back the glass shower pane, snatching his towel from the rung. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Sherlock nodded, and then disappeared, John shaking his head as he watched the tail end of the sheet dragging across the floor before the door closed to block his view.

“Poor Mrs. Hudson,” he murmured, shaking his head, their landlady no doubt regretting her offer to allow them to use her washer and dryer. Not to mention the fact that, every time John took the sheets down—far more often than they ought to require fresh linens—she got horribly embarrassed, flushing scarlet and twittering on about something or other, and, no matter how many times John explained that he simply lived with a crazy person who liked to wear sheets as lounge clothes, it was clear there was nothing he could say that would ever convince her they were not having near-constant sex.

Maybe he should buy sheets specifically for Sherlock to drag around the flat, that way they could leave their bed linens out of it, because, clearly, that was the most reasonable solution. God forbid Sherlock just wear clothes.

He was wearing clothes by the time John came out of the bathroom, however, but John might have preferred the sheet, as his boyfriend’s current attire had him stopped dead in the doorway of the kitchen.

Sherlock was standing with his back to the entryway—an obvious ploy, his hearing well-known to be something for the record books—wearing nothing but grey pants and John’s rugby jersey, which John had thought was folded in his dresser at _his_ flat after he’d washed it after the last game of the season, but, evidently, Sherlock had had other plans, and now turned to John with a smirk that clearly had several more ideas John wasn’t yet privy to. “Morning,” he chirped, as if he wasn’t the worst person in the entire world, and John narrowed his eyes at him, scanning down the man’s chest as he approached.

“Thief,” he muttered, but Sherlock only grinned, turning around to grab John’s mug from the counter behind him, already filled with steaming tea.

“I’ll give it back,” he assured as John took the cup, hobbling over to his usual chair at the experiment-less end of the table. “Next season starts in August, right?” he quipped, and John chuckled into his cup, swallowing down a mouthful of perfectly brewed tea as he lifted his face to his smirking boyfriend.

“Yeah, but we might be getting new jerseys,” he said as Sherlock turned away to the toaster, giving John a chance to drag his eyes down the length of his body, instantly growing incredibly fond of seeing his surname hovering above the tight rounds of Sherlock’s ass. “So you can probably keep that one, if you want.”

“Don’t you get to decide if the team gets new jerseys?” Sherlock asked coyly, looking back over his shoulder to lift a brow. “You just put in a request, or you don’t, don’t you? Captain?” he added, drawling over the title, and John was coming down with yellow fever or something, he was sure of it, he had to call in sick for the rest of the day.

“Perhaps,” was all he said though, and Sherlock laughed, turning around with John’s usual brown toast and strawberry jaw, which he dropped in front of him before taking the chair at his right, tangling his freezing feet with John’s under the table.

“What have I told you about socks!?” John blustered, adjusting his legs so Sherlock’s toes were pinned between his denim-clad calves. “You’re gonna get bloody frostbite one of these days, I swear!”

“It’s June,” Sherlock countered, but made no effort to pull his feet away as he picked at the crusts of John’s toast they both pretended were left there because John didn’t like them.

“Still,” John muttered, and Sherlock smiled at him, the two of them sitting in silence as John finished his small breakfast. “I gotta go,” he sighed, untangling their limbs as he rose, dropping his plate and cup into the sink before turning back around. “I’ll be done at 1. What time are you going into the studio?” he asked, and Sherlock shrugged, glancing out through the living room to the windows on the opposite wall.

“10 or so,” he replied. “Any earlier and the sun shines _right_ in my face.”

“Alright,” he said with a nod. “Well, if you get done early, just come over; it’ll only be Molly working with me by then. What time do we have to be at Irene’s thing?”

“Four,” Sherlock answered, standing up as well, and John shuffled out of the way so he could reach the kettle, flicking it on to start boiling again. “Are we gonna head back here first to shower and stuff, or should I bring clothes to change at the studio?”

“That depends,” John murmured, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist as he gently pulled him against his chest. “Does the ‘we’ include the shower?”

“You already showered,” Sherlock reminded, flicking lightly at a wet tuft of John’s hair, but John just shook his head, tightening his grip on the man.

“Can never be too clean,” he murmured, leaning up toward Sherlock’s face, but Sherlock turned away, lifting a hand to block John’s lips.

“No, I didn’t brush my teeth!” he whined, and John rolled his eyes, batting Sherlock’s hand away and pulling him back by the chin, kissing him hard and fast, half trying to prove a point, half still uncomfortably aroused by that damn jersey.

Sherlock gave up immediately, wilting against him as John nibbled lightly on his bottom lip, and then he leaned away, Sherlock’s eyes rather delayed in opening as he blinked hazily.

John smiled, lifting his hand to cup Sherlock’s chin, his thumb sliding back-and-forth across the full bottom lip. “I’ll see you later,” he said, dropping a last chaste kiss before unwinding his arms, heading toward the stairs. “And put some bloody socks on!” he shouted back as he descended, Sherlock’s musical laugh the soundtrack to his exit.

A little over three hours later, the early morning rush was over, and John was feeling those 13 minutes, drooped over the counter and flicking his fingers at sugar packets in an improvised version of shuffleboard. When yet another one flew clear off the ledge, he gave it up, gathering the parcels up and putting them back in the container behind the counter before finding himself yet again checking the window across the street.

He’d always thought, back before he knew Sherlock, before he even knew that name belonged to him, that, if he could just meet him, just spend a few minutes in his presence, the obsession with watching him would fade, and he would stop being some ethereal creature that overtook his entire being. As it turned out, however, knowing Sherlock Holmes only made him more enchanting, and John was now even further wrapped around his pirouetting little finger. He wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but it was actually _worse_ watching Sherlock now, knowing what those shifting leg muscles felt like under his palms, what the sweat that dripped down his forehead while he danced tasted like when John kissed it off his neck, what exactly his gasps sounded like when he finished a routine, dropping into a chair and draining his water bottle as he wiped his forearm across his forehead, and now, more than ever, John knew he was never getting out, never _wanted_ to get out, and, though he would’ve expected that to terrify him a few short months ago, he’d actually never looked forward to anything more.

It looked like Molly had been right all along: His life was a bloody Austen novel.

Suddenly, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and leapt up, no longer a shred of sleepiness in him as he saw the practice room light come on, a shadowy figure moving about just beyond the reach of the light. John had seen Sherlock less than four hours ago, but his fingers still tapped against the counter in anticipation, and, when Sherlock finally did approach the window, his jaw dropped.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathed, frozen a moment before snatching his mobile out of his pocket and rushing to the front window, the only spot they’d figured out that Sherlock could see from the studio. Hitting the appropriate speed dial button, he waited impatiently, glowering up at his boyfriend as he watched the man’s head snap up, and then he disappeared, darting back toward the interior of the room a few seconds before the call picked up.

“Hello?”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock chuckled, walking back to the window and leaning his hip against the glass. “Practicing,” he replied, smirking down at John as he crossed his ankles, bare legs leading up to tight black shorts and _John’s fucking rugby jersey._ “Why, what are you doing?”

“Planning your murder,” John growled, and Sherlock laughed, shaking his head down at him.

“Well, that’s absurd,” he teased. “You’d need me to get away with my murder.”

“I’ll buy a Ouija board.”

“I probably won’t want to help you if you’ve already murdered me.”

John didn’t reply a long moment, hoping Sherlock could see his glare just as clearly as he could see Sherlock smirk. “You are seriously going to inhibit my productivity today,” he finally said, and Sherlock laughed, pushing off the window to face him directly. “I mean it. I’ll end up with third-degree burns or something.”

“Well, then it’s lucky you have a doctor so close,” the detective retorted, beaming as John shook his head, smiling in spite of himself.

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it really.”

“I love _you_.”

John frowned, looking up at the window to see Sherlock gaping down at him, and was just opening his mouth to ask if there was an axe murderer behind him or something when his words caught up with him, the feeling probably fairly similar to being axe-murdered though.

“What?” Sherlock asked, his voice shaking down the line, and John swallowed, looking frantically around, his heart rattling his ribs.

“I- I-”

“Did you just-”

“No!”

“No?”

“No, not- Not _no_ no, I- I mean-”

“John?”

John looked up, staring helplessly at Sherlock staring at him. “I-” he stammered, but a flash of red to his right drew his attention, and he saw two people heading toward the café, closing in far too fast. “There’s someone coming,” he muttered, looking back up to the pale figure in the window. “I-I have to go.”

“What? No!” Sherlock spluttered, pressing a hand to the window as he shook his head. “John, wait! What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I- Sherlock-”

“JOHN!” Sherlock shouted, and John fell silent, fairly certain this was what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his Captain Watson voice, and it felt very, very small. “What are you trying to say?!”

“I love you,” John blurted, and Sherlock’s far away figure visibly shrank with shock, as if every muscle in his body had gone slack. “I love you, and-and I have to go,” he rushed, the two women within mere meters of the door now, and he turned away, hurrying back behind the counter as Sherlock’s protests blared from the speaker.

“No, John, wa-”

He tapped the red button on the screen, stowing his phone beneath the counter just in time as the two ladies walked in, their cheery conversation falling into polite smiles of greeting as they approached. “Good morning!” John wished, plenty good at pretending not to be completely falling apart inside after all his time in customer service. “What can I get for you?”

The two women wanted fairly complicated drinks, and Molly was busy unpacking a box of their new seasonal roast in the back, so there was no chance for John to look back up at the window, but he wasn’t sure he would want to anyway, half-convinced Sherlock would have somehow fashioned a death ray from paperclips and plastic cups and fire on sight. Once the women left, however, he knew he had no excuse not to, Sherlock no doubt aware that there was no one else in the café, so, cautiously, John approached the window, mobile in hand. As he looked up, though, he realized he wouldn’t need it, and his arm fell limp at his side, his eyes going wide as they scanned across the glass.

There, spread across the window pane, were several sheets of paper taped side-by-side, thick black marker spelling out a message in Sherlock’s jagged handwriting.

_I love you_

Sherlock reappeared from the right of the window, a final sheet of paper in his hand, and placed it perfectly in line with the others, oblivious to John standing there until he’d finished taping, stepping back to check the symmetry before catching John’s eye overtop of the message. He looked startled at first, and then simply smiled, stepping up to the window so his flushed smiling face hovered above the completed phrase.

_I love you too_

John didn’t know quite what to do, so he laughed, shaking his head fondly at Sherlock, who seemed equally lost, simply shrugging embarrassedly as he twitched an imperceptible adjustment to one of the middle pages.

“What are you giggling about?”

John whirled around, finding Molly too close to distract, and had just enough time to convey his absolute terror to Sherlock before she drew up to his side.

“Is that-” Molly mused, narrowing her eyes up at the window, and Sherlock froze, as if trying to go unnoticed by a predator. Molly gasped, clasping a hand to her mouth as she looked between John and Sherlock, the glee in her smile apparently needing another outlet, as she also started to bounce slightly. “Oh my god!” she cried, clasping John on the shoulder as she jumped up and down. “Oh my _god_!”

“Molly-“

“Is that what I think it is?” she interjected, pointing up at the message that Sherlock was now futilely trying to hide behind. “Is this the L-bomb moment!? _Finally_ , we thought it would never happen!”

“The L-bo- Wait, we?” John questioned, but Molly just squealed, thrusting a hand into her pocket and ripping out her mobile.

“I have to call Irene!” she urged, and John’s eyes nearly flew free of his head. “She is _not_ going to believe this! You said it first, right?” Molly asked, pointing at him, phone already drawn to her ear. “I get 20 quid if you said it first.”

“20 quid?” John echoed. “You were _betting_ on us!?”

“Irene!” Molly exclaimed into the receiver, and John just looked on, the situation already thoroughly washed out to sea. “You will not believe what just happened! Actually, hang on a sec,” she muttered, and then pulled the phone away from her face, tapping a few buttons before holding it up to the window.

“Are you-”

“There,” Molly interrupted, drawing her phone back in front of her and clearly looking at photographic evidence. “I’m gonna send you a picture, okay?” she continued, moving the phone back to her ear and heading away toward the back room, leaving John staring after her, completely dumbstruck.

A few seconds later, his phone vibrated in his hand, and he looked down, opening the text from Sherlock.

**_Did she just take a picture?_ **

John grimaced up at the man, nodding, and Sherlock shook his head, though he didn’t look particularly surprised.

_She’s sending it to Irene_

John watched Sherlock open the message, his face curling up in a wince John could absolutely relate to, and, after a moment’s hesitation and a few failed attempts at actually hitting the send button, he delivered another message.

_Still love me?_

Sherlock lifted his mobile up to his face, tapping at a few buttons before his expression went suddenly soft, and he smiled, stepping as close as possible to the window before giving a single firm nod.

John beamed back, watching as Sherlock typed out another message, and then clicked it open when it buzzed into his phone.

**_I am going to take the sign down though_ **

John nodded, first at the screen, and then up at the man himself, and Sherlock laughed, slowly starting to peel away the tape as John watched, a smile growing on his face as an idea grew in his mind. Pressing the familiar number on his phone, he lifted it to his ear, watching as Sherlock abandoned the last sheet of paper to fetch his mobile from a nearby chair.

“Yes?” he answered, stepping back to the window with a curious quirk of his brow.

“You mind if we skip Irene’s tonight?” John asked, and Sherlock’s face instantly split into a brilliant grin.

“Why, John Watson,” he drawled, cocking his hip against the glass once more, “I thought you’d never ask.”

John chuckled, and then fell silent, smiling up at the man in the window he couldn’t imagine he had ever managed to scrape by living without.

“What?” Sherlock questioned, expression growing concerned, and John shook his head.

“Nothing,” he softly assured, and then, because he could now… “I love you.”

Sherlock immediately beamed, and then ducked his head, looking slightly more composed when he met John’s eyes again. “I love you too,” he said, and John needed to record that and set it as his ringtone, his alarm chime, replace every song on his iPod, program their bloody microwave to- “Idiot,” Sherlock added in a mutter, pointedly pulling the phone away from his ear and hanging up before dropping it back onto the chair and retreating from the window to start his practice, and John gaped at the vacant space a moment before bursting into laughter, shaking his head fondly as he slipped his mobile back in his pocket.

Yes, he was in love with a crazy person, a crazy person who was probably getting monogrammed sheets for Christmas just because John knew he would love them, and, however crazy it might make him too, he wouldn’t change a single thing.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'Blond Barista Seeks Dashing Ballet Dancer: Inquire Within' by prettysailorsoldier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929629) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)




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